


Render

by Legendaerie



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Minor Anxiety/PTSD, Multi, Near Future, Social Issues, Suicide mention, What Measure Is A Non Human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:05:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 94,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/Legendaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Nanowrimo 2013 Winner)</p><p>It's a simple check on the back of your driver's license - "In Case Of Serious Injury, Please Salvage." It could almost certainly save your life, but with this promise comes a steep price; that of your humanity. If too much of your body is damaged and replaced with robotic prosthetics, then you're no longer considered a human, and can be bought, sold or destroyed with hardly a single thought.</p><p>Jean's not thought about his friend from high school in years - he'd died, end of story, and they'd moved away. Lost contact, too; that is, until he gets an email with a note about a mysterious inheritance. But he doesn't just get part of the Bodt family fortune - he also inherits the Doctor's only son, one of the first Salvages in existence... and his old friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: You Could Live But They Won't Let You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [R_Vienna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Vienna/gifts).



> DISCLAIMER: This was supposed to be an AU gifted to my dear friend Angie, and basically an excuse to attempt to do A Big Thing for NaNoWriMo. What it actually did was basically break down my door, piss all over my homework and social life, and demand to be written the way it wanted to be, come hell or high water.
> 
> I have done my best to be as obsessively accurate and physically slash medically slash technically slash socially slash everything accurate as possible, but there's still some things in here that are bullshited. 
> 
> I'd also like to thank Sine (aka sinelanguage) for being a ridiculously tolerant sounding board for all my nonsense. I wish I could credit some of the other fantastic cyborg AU ideas I've seen for inspiring this, but I've had the vague idea since before I even really got into SNK.
> 
> With no further ado, here we go.

Outside, the sun’s warmth seemed to be completely a result of its good humor, and not a natural process of late spring. Outside, the world itself seemed happy as the last piles of dirty late April snow melted in parking lots and yards. By contrast, inside the high school, one particular teenager was miserable.

Jean Kirstein shifted in his desk, sliding his heels along the floor until he slouched himself into a more comfortable position. He wanted to be outside during this weather, but he also fervently hoped it would rain by the time he headed home - otherwise he’d be roped into working outside on any one of the enumerable chores involved with their impending move.

Not a cloud in the in sky, though. Jean ruffled the dyed blond hair of his undercut, enjoying the sensation of his fingers through the locks. It was more a physical tick than anything else - the hair ruffling, not the hair dyeing.

“Hey.”

Someone’s breath puffed into the back of his neck, and he jerked his head back at a painful angle to give the speaker a glare. Childhood friend or not, if Jean got caught talking again in class his ass was grass, so to speak. “What, Marco?”

Unfazed, the bronze-skinned boy gave Jean a gentle smile. “You haven’t spoken much all class,” he noted softly.

“So?”

“The answer’s Lysistrata,” Marco offered, as means of explanation, turning his calm deep-brown eyes back to his own homework. Jean had just enough time to sit up and form a confused expression before the teacher’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts again.

“Kirstein?”

“Ly-Lysistrata,” he replied automatically. There was a snort of annoyance a few seats behind him and to the left - Jean cocked his arm behind his back and flipped the culprit a subtle bird as the teacher moved on, satisfied. “Thanks,” the blond boy muttered.

Marco Bodt gave no sign that he heard, but for the widening of the perpetual slight smile he seemed to carry everywhere. Feeling like their daily transaction was complete, Jean resumed to staring outdoors.

 

* * *

 

 Between classes, a short boy with a buzz cut ambushed Jean in the hallway as he was in the middle of switching out his books from the next period, Marco a few locker doors down. Ambushed here was actually a fairly literal term, since Jean stumbled backwards when a pair of dark brown arms appeared around his neck. The weight pulled Jean down and made him teeter dangerously backwards as the freshman attempted to dangle off the taller boy.

“Jean! You going to Reiner’s party this weekend?”

Connie dropped to the floor as Jean gave him a hard, amber stare. “Yo, Springer, how’d someone like you find out about that?” he demanded as Marco offered a quieter greeting.

 “Bertie’s actually pretty friendly if you bother to talk to him,” Connie shrugged. “But hey, man, can you give me a ride? It’s kind of a long distance for me to bike.”

Jean gave a short, hard laugh of derision. “Of course you’d think of riding your bike to a party, dude. You’re shit outta luck though, I can’t drive you yet.”

Far from looking crestfallen, Connie looked rather triumphant. “Oh, so you _did_ fail your driver’s license test?”

“I-- I didn’t fail!” the senior spluttered. And it was true, he hadn’t failed anything yet; but Jean had the kind of face that didn’t exactly foster feelings of trust in his character. “My parents have just been too busy to drive with me to give me enough hours.”

At this moment, Marco stepped in - cautiously, almost, but that was just more or less his way of doing things - and, hands in his pockets, spoke up. “I could drive you, Connie, if you wanted. Jean, you too, of course.”

Jean’s eyebrows jerked out of their reflexive frown to emote surprise as Connie’s boisterous voice asked the question for both of them. “Woah! You actually got a license, Marco?”

“Yeah, and I’ve held it long enough that I can drive you guys around.” Marco grinned, pleased with himself. Feeling distinctly young, Jean crossed his arms and huffed.

“You didn’t tell me this, Marco.”

Deep brown eyes flicked in his direction as the slightly taller boy gave him a sheepish look. “I kind of did, actually. A couple times. But I guess you were too busy playing video games to notice.”

A hot blush of shame made Jean’s pale skin go slightly red, but he doubted anyone really noticed, especially when he reached viciously into Marco’s front pants pocket. The other boy sucked in a short breath through his teeth, but Jean had already retrieved Marco’s wallet and flipped it open. “Lemme see this,” he muttered as an excuse, but Marco didn’t protest or make any move to take it back. He looked a little red, honestly, but that could have just been the lighting.

At last, Jean retrieved a slick plastic card with Marco’s gently smiling face on one side, practically lost in a sea of text and watermarks and the state seal. Connie tried to snatch the license, but a sturdy palm to his forehead stopped the younger boy in his tracks, and the blond leaned into the grip a bit.

“Looks legit,” Jean remarked, a little begrudgingly.

“You almost sound disappointed, Jean,” Marco noted, retrieving the wallet carefully as Jean passed the driver’s license to Connie. He looked it over a bit more thoroughly, albeit with more wonder and admiration than thinly-veiled envy and shame.

“Woah, Marco, you checked off the box for Salvaging?”

The tone of the conversation shifted, almost visibly, as the world around the three friends seemed suddenly much further away. Marco looked a little shy, maybe, but he certainly looked anywhere but at Jean’s face.

“Well, you know, it’s a valid option now.”

Jean snorted, trying and failing not to look too angry. “It’s hardly past the clinical trials,” he started, voice like a whip-crack in his irritation, “and worse, Jaeger’s dad is a huge part of that.”

“So? Eren’s our friend, man, and he’s cool. Just because the son’s a dumbass don’t mean his dad is too.” Connie, simple and to the point, gave Jean a scowl.

“Actually, it kind of does, since they’re _father and son_.” Jean countered - Connie rolled his eyes – and steamrolled on. “But the point is that it’s _just a pipe dream_. It’s basically donating your entire body for science if you break your arm.”

Marco yanked his license out of Connie’s grasp - his aggression shocked both of his companions more than the sound of the bell, which shrieked the signal for the start of classes as their freckled friend walked away, looking tired and serious.

“Time for class, guys,” he advised them, as he headed to biology with his backpack over one shoulder. Jean followed him at a jog, barely remembering to actually grab his bags on the way, and fell into step beside him.

“My dad’s a mechanic, man. The science behind Salvages is still really messed up--”

“But things are never going to improve if we don’t give people like Doctor Jaeger the money and the freedom to do their research. I mean, I don’t _want_ to be Salvaged but if it’s between that and death…”  
   He lowered his voice when they entered the classroom, but unlike his usual, studious self he kept talking as he laid his backpack down gently on the table beside the microscope.

“I’d rather live than die, even if I don’t entirely come back human, you know?”

Jean gave him a roll of his eyes for a reply, hiding his inner conflict. Half of him was still just jealous that Marco had a license before Jean did, but the other half was kind of scared by the prospect entirely.

“Don’t worry about me, Jean,” Marco whispered, a bit too close to

his ear. “I won’t become a Salvage.”

“The only thing I worry about,” he chided as he scooted a little further away and started getting out his books for the class, “is if you’re actually a good enough driver to take us all to Reiner’s this weekend.”

 

* * *

 

Jean slouched again in the passenger seat of Marco’s car, the seat tilted slightly backwards to make it easier for him to assume that sort of position. They were idling in the driveway for Connie’s house, picking him up under the guise of heading to the arcade – an easy enough task, since Marco was the Good Kid at school with the rich widowed dad, straight out of a cheesy young adult romance novel.

Jean himself was a little surprised, since he knew Marco enough to know that assisting in what was almost certainly going to be an event filled with underage drinking wasn’t exactly his cup of tea. Probably both literally and metaphorically, since otherwise the freckle-faced boy was such a stereotype of studious concern that Jean had no problem picturing him drinking a cup of earl grey as he studied. What a loser.

Ever blunt, Jean brought up the topic as he sat up for a moment to stretch. “So, what’s with you takin’ us to the party?”

Marco’s fingers tapped the steering wheel in a rolling, nervous sort of motion. “Well, you’re moving at the end of the year, right? So I figured that we should maybe do something together before you go.” Brown eyes flittered over to him, then back out the window like he was still driving and it was imperative to keep his eyes on the road. “I’m… I’m really gonna miss you, you know?”

“You do realize that Connie’s, like, 15 and he is about to get completely smashed, right?”

Apparently not, since Marco’s face contorted into an expression of awkward discomfort. “… I didn’t really think about that.”

“And you’re gonna have to be the designated driver, so you won’t be able to drink--”

“That’s fine--”

“--So you’re gonna be the only sober one here because I am

going to be _wasted_. As drunk as possible.”

“It’s fine,” Marco insisted, and before they could argue further Connie slid into the backseat, grinning manically with a brown-haired girl on his arm.

“Hope you guys don’t mind me bringin’ Sasha along, right?”

“Not at all,” Jean assured him, falsely, as Marco’s face went a little pale and he shifted the car into drive. Sasha Blouse was Connie’s age, and therefore fifteen as well; no doubt Marco was beginning to regret acting as an enabler for this sort of behavior.

“Just… promise me you guys aren’t going to get too drunk, okay?”

There was an awkward pause in the car, before raucous laughter exploded. Connie and Sasha fist bumped complete with sound effects in the back seat, and Jean smirked along. But still, his expression was a bit hollow and the front seat stayed silent as the grave as they drove to the Braun house.

It wasn’t hard to miss, once you actually started down the long driveway hidden in the trees. Reiner Braun’s house was just outside the neighborhood in a farm house that hadn’t been actually involved with agriculture from probably close to a hundred years, and the entire front lawn was covered near equally with cars and trees. If that hadn’t been enough of a giveaway, the lights were all on, some flashing in bright colors, and the faint thrum of music could be heard as Marco tried to find a decent parking space that wouldn’t leave deep ruts in the soggy lawn when they left.

“Dude, just fucking drop us off,” Jean muttered as they circled the

house for the third time. Marco sighed but relented, turning the car back around to the back door and shifting it into park before unlocking the door. Sasha and Connie tumbled out like candy from a ripped bag, rolling onto the scene with the enthusiasm of children. Suddenly, Jean felt the urge to protect them from drinking too much as well.

“Hey,” and Jean was brought to a halt as Marco caught him by his tee-shirt sleeves, dark eyes large and far too serious for a high school party setting. “Keep an eye on them, okay? I’ll be there in a moment.”

“‘Course,” Jean assured him, jerking out of the loose grip with a little too much effort. Then he slammed the car door shut and walked

inside the house, feeling that gaze follow him the whole time.

Inside was a happy chaos; it was early enough that too many people hadn’t started trashing things for the sake of trashing them or started throwing up on the furniture. It looked like anything fragile had already been packed away, anyway, and even if it hadn’t Annie was stalking the floors like a tiny blonde tiger. The sheriff’s daughter and Reiner’s closest friend - or girlfriend, no one was really sure. Either way, Jean had to suppress a shudder and avoid the short senior as he headed, inevitably, to the kitchen.

Connie and Sasha were already there, chugging down something in matching red solo cups that made Jean tense up with worry. A large hand landed on his shoulder, then Reiner himself, captain of the football team, spoke reassuringly in Jean’s ear.

“Don’t worry, it’s just Kool-Aid with maybe a tablespoon of tequila. If they act drunk, it’s from the mental effect of thinking they’re drunk.”

“Ah,” said Jean, like he actually understood a word of that. Reiner chuckled anyway and led Jean to the living room, where there was a myriad of coolers acting as an army of footrests for an army of teenagers. There was almost a third of Jean’s entire school in the room in various stages of partying - some were draped over each other either laughing or making out, some were dancing to the music that poured thick and hot like sweat out of the speakers of the entertainment system. Bertholt, Reiner’s closest friend and the world’s tallest pushover, guarded the equipment in a rather un-intimidating fashion. But on the other side of the room Annie lingered, hawk-like, as a considerably more effective guard.

“Beer’s in the coolers,” Reiner explained as Jean headed to the nearest one, prying open the lid after shoving someone’s feet off it and withdrawing a tall can of beer from the slowly melting ice. The metal was frigid in his fingers, making them stiff and uncoordinated as he popped the tab open and took a long draw. He flexed the fingers of his free hand as he stood, nodded thankfully to Reiner who gave him a knowing wink in return, and headed over to talk with Berthold.

“Nice thing about small town schools,” Jean noted - or shouted, over the sound of the bass. “The quarterback himself will help you find the booze.”

 Bertholt nodded, though he still looked a little distant, but if he’d meant to reply at all his words were drowned out by someone else’s shout moments later.

“Guess the sayin’s not true, then? That after all, y’ can lead a horse to water and make ‘im drink?”

Connie stumbled across the room and laughed in Jean’s face, who gritted his teeth as the implied joke about the length of his face. But the moment passed and the freshman wandered on, making a fool of himself and sloshing his Kool-Aid around in his solo cup. Jean took another drink, this one deeper than the one before, and enjoyed the feeling of warmth running down his spine. He didn’t need to let fools like Connie bother him today.

Or Marco.

The freckled boy had finally joined the party, walking calmly through the hallway and glancing sideways every couple steps - Jean, on impulse more than anything, ducked his head and stood a little closer to the window and out of sight. The moment, and the other boy, passed by without incident. Jean stifled a sigh.

“Hey, why the long face?”

Jean gave the speaker of that joke a look that radiated the kind of disdain such a remark merited, but Eren Jaeger plowed on through anyway. They’d hated each other the first year as Jean had been a little too fond of Eren’s adopted sister Mikasa, but they’d made an awkward sort of peace since then. Eren took another long drink from his matching beer and nudged Jean in the shoulder, itching at a scar on his arm that looked suspiciously like stitches. Jean wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that the brunet had broken his wrist or something again - guy was as accident prone as they came. Probably spent more time sick than in school, but Mikasa always took notes for the both of them.

“Word on the street is that your movin’ day is coming up soon,” Eren continued, wincing around his latest swallow. “Where are you headed, again?”

“Up by Sinapolis,” the blond replied automatically.

“The big city?”

Jean raised an eyebrow and gave Eren a dry look as Sasha

sauntered up, her plastic cup a little too full. “Do you any other places called Sinapolis?” he asked bitterly.

Eren rolled his eyes, giving Sasha time to properly join in the conversation. She was either a complete lightweight, or Reiner had been right about the mentality of alcohol, for her cheeks were red and her expression even more dopey than usual.

“Hey, Jean, were you avoidin’ Marco just now?”

He shrugged, not really able to explain it himself. He hoped it showed in his expression and some of it must have, since the reddish-haired girl’s next questions was; “If you don’t like him, then why d’ ya hang out with him so much?”

“Our parents are friends,” he explained. “Kind of. His dad knows my stepdad, but we’ve known each other since preschool - it’s a habit by now, you know? Marco’s just always there. And he’s good at school and stuff so I get to copy off his homework.”

What he didn’t say were all the time that he studied late at night with Marco, trying so hard to wrap his mind around equations and history because deep down he actually did care how he did in school. It seemed… shameful, somehow, and he didn’t want anyone to know how hard he actually worked and how hard he cared, underneath it all.

Sasha seemed satisfied, though, and shrugged. “He’s probably glad he’s got you, too. I mean look at him,” and she gestured in the way Marco had gone with her half full cup of Kool-Aid, sloshing the artificially colored beverage in a way that made Jean wince in anticipation for the light colored carpet. “He’s a pushover without you to back him up. You’ve got guts, though, being friends with someone like him even after it’s so obvious that he--”

Abruptly, Jean stormed off, responding to Sasha’s protest only with a grumbled shout of “bathroom.” And it wasn’t a lie, not really, but his feet weren’t working quite right and all he really knew was that he did not want to hear anything that Sasha said about him and Marco. Because there wasn’t a him and Marco, just a him and a Marco and that was all, and he’d be fine if people stopped… stopped bringing it up all the damn time.

He didn’t really need to use the bathroom, but he found it through

a combination of blind luck and intuition and locked himself inside. Through the door, the sounds of the outside world were muffled, distant, and he took a moment to mess with his appearance. Ruffling his hair into a messier style, yanking on the edges of his unzipped leather jacket, he soothed his ego. He knew what kind of person Marco was, and it was fine with him. Really.

Thus composed, he headed back into the fray. Still, Jean couldn’t help himself from double-checking each person who walked by for black hair; for both Marco and, out of habit, the girl he’d loved with a distinct and intense sort of affection since he’d entered high school. It had been almost three years, so by now the emotion could have been described as more like drinking acid than ambrosia from the cup of the gods or some other bullshit metaphor. He’d given up, mourned the loss, but he still watched out of the corner of his eye for Mikasa anyway.

He made it to the kitchen without seeing either of them, and as he weaved between schoolmates he’d known for years and never really talked to, it gave him a strange sense of cold sadness. It didn’t hurt, really - but it was a melancholy all the same. Here he pitched the empty beer can and started back to the living room to grab another.

But the scene had changed since he’d been gone, and the coolers had been pushed to the walls as the lights had been mostly killed. Dance music pulsed through the space, a strong beat with a vaguely synthesized tone under a classical sort of swing tune. He found Mikasa, at last, dancing poker-faced with Eren’s best friend Armin, a blond haired brilliant young man who soft voice and soft face complimented the personalities of his no-nonsense friends perfectly. Jean also noticed the petite, stunning blonde Historia dancing with the foreign exchange student Ymir – of all people, Ymir’s brutally aggressive honesty seemed like the worst counterpoint for Historia’s sugared sweetness. But, there they were.

Jean leaned in the doorway, crossed his arms and observed the scene, trying to judge whether or not he should join in. It seemed to be a tune more intended for couples - either that or those with partners were the only ones in the mood to dance. He scanned the mass of people, identifying both friends and couples both, and…

Marco was there, dancing with a freshman. Her loose pigtails, dark and sleek, swung around as the freckled junior twirled her around with a moderate level of skill. Their footwork was a little rough, maybe, to the trained eye, but it was enough of a scene that a small ring of people had formed around them. Jean stood up a little taller, just enough to see through the people and watch the dancers move.

The girl looked a little shy, but her smile was still as bright as her partner’s as they spun, broke apart, bounced on the balls of their feet. They glided somewhat clumsily on the carpet, then drew back together in a fluid movement, rinse and repeat. They looked pleased, though Jean couldn’t remember if he’d ever seen her talk much with Marco. He relaxed a bit, his shoulders dropping as he sighed, freed from a burden unseen. He was glad it was a girl this time.

Back he headed to the kitchen, which was considerably more packed than before, and he grabbed a cup of punch experimentally - then had to cough as the booze hit the back of his throat. Jean gave the beverage a dirty glare. Apparently someone - or multiple someones - had spiked Reiner’s punch. He rolled his eyes and downed the rest of the fruity drink.

He knew that when he got home, he’d have to sneak in through his bedroom window and wake up early enough to smudge on concealer to hide the bags under his eyes; but he also knew that his parents would be too stressed about the moving to really notice. It wasn’t that he made a habit of this kind of behavior either. If things went a little crazy he could always count on Marco to take him home, cover for him and nurse him back to health with glasses of water and painkillers. Like he always did.

Jean would miss him; even if their relationship had its moments of strain, Marco was still his closest and dearest friend. No one from the big city could ever replace the freckle-faced brunet.

His internal monologue was cut off abruptly. A loud and familiar voice broke out at the far side of room, and presently Connie shouldered his way through the masses to shout in Jean’s face.

“Hey, Jean, come quick! Marco’s in a fight!”

The empty cup crumpled in the blond’s hand as he snapped at the messenger. “What the hell am I supposed to do about it?”

Connie’s expression, though punch-drunk in the literal sense, was one of actual fear. “I can’t find Reiner and he’s getting the shit kicked out of him!”

“Course he is,” Jean muttered and stormed back to the living room.

The brunet was standing between a frightened freshman - maybe even a middle school kid - as two of the bigger guys from Jean’s year flanked Marco, who was already holding himself too tense. Jean’s eyes skimmed over the scene, trying to analyze the situation; but then the darker-haired of the two thugs swung a punch at the freshman. And of course Marco jumped in front of the blow, absorbing the blow as best as he could with his upper arm as he cried something inaudible.

Nothing about the situation was new. He’d seen enough.

Jean jumped into the fray in time for the next punch, this time from the other boy, but he didn’t bother trying to hold back. A vicious kick to the other’s kneecap downed him, and then Jean used their collective momentum to crush the other’s nose by slamming him in the face with his knee. One down, one to go - but by that time, Eren had caught scent of a fight.

He’d actually never seen Eren in a fight firsthand, but where ever Eren went, Mikasa went with him and the petite black-haired girl was just as effective as Annie to kill a combative moment. The other junior was gone, pursued by Eren, and Jean and Mikasa exchanged polite glances as they passed each other by.

Marco was in the middle of tending to the frightened kid when Jean grabbed his arm and wrenched him away, muttering angrily something along the lines of “let the damn kid breathe.” He was still seething with anger, and the crowd parted around him like his emotions rolled and snapped off him like flames, but one person remained unburned.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” Marco started, as they headed down the hallway into a quieter part of the house.

“Yeah, I did, because you were getting your ass kicked.” Jean was shaking from adrenaline, anger, and everything that sparked through his veins was only fueled by the alcohol in his system. “You keep-- fucking pulling this shit, Marco, this _‘oh gee willickers everyone is a precious baby and I have to protect them_ ’ but you gotta stop trying to be everyone’s fucking guardian.”

He snorted, some of his ire dissolving as the sounds of the party receded - they were back by the bedrooms, which were thankfully still unoccupied by horny classmates - as he finished his speech.

“You gotta take care of yourself sometimes, too, you know.”

His only reply is a small smile from the brunet, only a little forced. “But I’ve got you to do that for me, Jean. And it’s not like it happens that often--”

“It happens enough, and you… you won’t always have me. I leave in a month, so what the hell are you gonna do after that?”

Marco’s smile faltered and fell, and as they stood in the silence of a dark hallway somewhere, his eyes brighten and gleamed in the darkness before he blinked, swallowed, and gave a very small choked noise. “I… I don’t know.”

Jean hesitated as Marco slowly began to break down in front of him, as he raised his hands to his face and hid behind them, drawing in deep breaths that came out in a shudder each time. This was something he couldn’t fix with punches or snarled curses, this he couldn’t fix just by being himself, rough and harsh and flippant about the classes he didn’t care about. But he didn’t have time to do anything, because at that moment Marco broke out of his stupor to step forward, his eyes still wet from crying, and kiss Jean full on the lips.

It wasn’t Jean’s first kiss, but it was his first with Marco, with any guy - he took a step backward, more from shock than anything else, and Marco followed, eyes tightly closed but lips soft, tender, seeking. Jean’s stomach twisted, first with something like butterflies, then clenched tightly in nausea.

His hands rose, found Marco’s shoulders, and shoved them roughly apart. Jean grabbed the collar of his shirt and wiped damp off his lips, knowing it was a mix of Marco’s saliva and his tears but neither of those were things he wanted there. Not now. Not ever.

“Marco, I’m… I’m not gay.”

“I know,” came the reply, as the other boy opened coffee-dark eyes at last, eyes that were still so sad. “I… I know.”

Jean felt sick. “I’m going to ask Armin for a ride home.”

“Jean, wait--”

A hand grabbed for his shoulder, and he wrenched out of the weak, trembling grip, refusing to turn around even for a moment.

“Jean, I’m so sorry, I--”

“I’ll see you at school,” he gritted out as he walked as swift as he could back to the crowd, trying to outrun the breaking voice without actually running.

“ _Jean!_ ”

But even as he entered the kitchen, where conversations overlapped and the music could be heard insistently through the walls, Jean swore he could still hear those stifled, wretched sounds. He found Armin quickly, clapped a hand on his shoulder and hauled him away from Eren all the way outside to the front porch.

“What--?” Armin complained, shivering in the sudden chill. “Jean, are you all right?”

“Peachy,” he muttered, then stepped to the edge of the porch, braced his hands on the rail, and vomited into the bushes. His stomach was heaving from the stress and the beer and god knew what else. When he finally recovered, Armin was still standing behind him despite the smell and lack of explanation.

“Do you… want to talk about it?”

Jean shook his head. “Just… shit, can you give me a ride home?”

“When?”

“Now.”

Armin’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he looked more concerned than upset. After a moment of contemplation he shrugged and headed back inside. “Wait right here for a moment.”

Jean obeyed, sinking down to a kneeling position as the cold of the night finally started to seep through his clothes, tangible and damp and tried so hard not to think about Marco. Not to think about how his friend might be feeling, or how he’d have to see him tomorrow and every day from now until he moved, and then after that… Probably very little, if ever again. It was a relief as much as it was a concern to him.

The door creaked as it swung open, then a shoe dug into his spine. He glanced up to see Annie, frost blue eyes impassive as she glared down at him.

“Come on, Kirstein. I’m driving you home.”

“Bu-- I thought Armin--”

“Can’t drive.”

“Mikasa--”

“Busy with Eren. It’s me or walking.”

Jean heaved a sigh and pulled himself to his feet, following the senior in an intimidated silence out to the side, where her innocuous brown car was parked. The silence lasted until they were about halfway to his house, when Jean hazarded a question.

“So, do you need directions, or--”

“No.”

Chided, he bit the inside of his cheek and turned his attention to the scenery rolling by outside the car window. Inside, with her, it somehow felt even colder than it had sitting on the porch.

“We’re here,” she said, eventually, after Jean had started zoning out from exhaustion and boredom. He jumped at the sound of her voice, registering their surroundings as being parked about half a block from his house, and started to fumble with the door handle of the car.

“Hey, it’s locked, can you--”

“Marco loves you.”

Jean went very, very still. “I know,” he replied hoarsely. “I know, but I don’t--”

“Beyond that. Don’t hurt him unnecessarily.”

Annie smoothly reached across him and flicked the lock on the car door, expression impassive as always as she pushed the door open and shoved Jean towards the opening.

“Thanks for the--”

She slammed the door before he had a chance to finish, then smoothly executed a three point turn in the middle of the street and headed back the way she came. Shoving his hands in his pockets, Jean walked home.

 

* * *

 

Beyond the same boring, dirty windows, the sky was an endless expanse of misty grey like a flannel sheet, the weather still clinging to the pretense of spring though by now it was approaching summer. Jean still wasn’t paying attention, though he was leaning forward in his chair with his spine stiff and his shoulders hunched as he flicked his finger across the surface of the digital tablet he used for this class. He’d solved the math problems ages ago but he wanted to look busy for as long as possible, hyper aware of the boy sitting three rows to the left and one chair behind him. They hadn’t spoken for two weeks now, not even when their parents had gotten together for poker and politics three nights prior. Jean had locked himself in his room and stayed there, ignoring Marco’s lone knock and another one of his countless apologies muttered into the door.

Jean still wasn’t ready to talk to him, but almost. His anger, his fear, his tension and paranoia and desperation to both protect his friend and protect himself from his friend were uncoiling slowly. He was relaxing in bits and pieces. But when the bell finally rang, Jean was the first out of his chair, computer tucked tightly under his arm as he headed to the lockers to put his rented tablet away for the day.

He wasn’t quite ready yet. And he still had some time to make things right before graduation, so he’d do it then - right before the distance between them was permanent, comfortable, and inexorable. They’d be friends for just long enough to part ways comfortably, and then Jean would never have to worry about being wanted or kissed or cried over like that ever again. He’d be free, and so would Marco.

Even so, he strained his ears to listen to Marco’s conversation with Armin as he stashed away his tablet, checking and rechecking the lock even though he knew he secured it the first time.

“Hey, you doin’ anything after this, Marco?”

“Yeah, I gotta hurry home. My dad let me have the car this morning since I missed the bus, and he’s got a meeting in town with Dr. Jaeger about business. I’ll see you tomorrow, though, okay?”

Jean’s hands kept fumbling with the lock as he chanced a glance at Marco from the corner of his eye. Their gazes met and held for a moment as Marco’s smile - which had never been anything other than weak and feigned anyway - faltered. But neither boy spoke. Jean turned back to his locker as Marco sighed softly and walked past both the dyed blond and his shorter companion. He passed by a little close to Jean in a deliberate way, in a way that Jean caught a whiff of the gentle smell of deodorant and something else that Jean had never been

poetic enough to try to describe other than the smell of Marco.

The fact that he remembered the scent reminded him, awkwardly, of their years of closeness without this now present strain between them, and it made Jean’s stomach churn with guilt.

“I’m gonna bike home today, okay Armin? Make sure the bus driver knows. I already texted my parents.”

Armin gave him a curious look. “What for? It looks like it’s going to rain soon.”

“Because I want to, okay?” Jean’s temper was short on a good day, and he hadn’t had a good day for two weeks. “Are you gonna tell the bus driver or not?”

Armin’s blue eyes widened and he almost winced at the sudden harsh tone. “Yeah, it’s fine. No need to get upset, Jean.”

Jean almost wished his locker was still open just so he could slam it dramatically, but he had to settle for sulking down the hallway. He radiated anger and guilt like his emotions had formed a spiny armor, digging at everyone he passed as he headed in the opposite direction Marco had gone - out back to the track field.

At least, at one point in time it had been a track field, but it had since fallen into disrepair as budget cuts and a rapidly changing world forced the small town school to join the future. He’d liked sports when he’d been a kid - not that he’d been excellent, but he had enjoyed the movement, the tactics involved.

Jean wandered through the overlong weeds, knowing full well he’d have to shower when he went home or risk bites from chiggers, but he could almost hear his time there ticking away. Growing up felt less like a journey and more like being pushed off a building, free-falling and spinning your arms frantically as the pavement rushed up to meet him. Moving away from the only home he’d known was much the same.

So he paced the overgrown field with a faint ring of packed dirt still visible, tracing the path to the finish line he might have taken if track had still been an option by the time he’d entered high school. In the distance, he could hear the faint sound of sirens, almost an ambient noise, and he started to jog a circuit. The earth was firm, steady, and dependable under his feet as he sprinted along the barely-visible track, not bothering to follow a specific lane and leaping over clumps of weeds that hunched angry and resentful at his intrusion.

He ran as though all the fears in the back of his mind, of moving on and moving away and losing the things that were if not familiar than at least dear to him, were made manifest and they chased him like snapping wild dogs. He ran until his breath burned in his throat, until the pounding of his legs into the earth made his vision tremble, until the sounds of the outside world faded, until he was no longer afraid. Then, feeling as though he’d said a proper goodbye - and a bit of a feeling of good riddance, as he stomped down a particularly tall weed - Jean headed to the bike racks.

The bike lock was cold to his fingers but he still tapped in the code without an issue, relocking around the belt loop on his jeans as he straddled the hybrid machine. His feet only had to give the pedals a light push, the handlebars a squeeze, and then the electric motor purred to life and Jean rolled out of the parking lot and down the street into the light grey afternoon.

It was faintly humid, but cool enough that Jean’s muscles were tense as he glided on his bike, down familiar streets lines with trees who had seen countless lives start and end under their coarse branches. Perhaps without this quiet atmospheric tension, he might not have seen the marks of chaos in the intersection.

There were skid marks, dark and swerving and frantic on the old asphalt, marring the faded paint that divided the lane and still some shattered glass peppering the road like kosher salt - but most jarring of all, a large smear of blood painted the pavement. It made Jean’s stomach turn, and he stopped in the middle of the street to gawk.

“Hey!”

A police officer Jean hadn’t noticed was standing beside his car, a camera in his hands as one of his coworkers closed the trunk of the vehicle with a slam that made Jean jolt.

“Move along, kid. I don’t want a repeat of what just happened today, all right? One dead man is enough for one weekend.”

“Dead?” It chilled him a bit to hear those words, but more than that it piqued his interest. “What happened?”

“Two car accident.” He nodded to the carmine stain not thirty feet from where Jean was standing, straddling his bike. “That one got hit broadside, rolled his car six times. Now head home.” The officer looked faintly disturbed, and Jean headed home with the image still burned in his mind.

He was extra careful biking home this time, glancing up and down every road he crossed. The gory scene following him like the dead man was haunting him the whole way home. It wasn’t hard to picture some mysterious stranger, half the skin on his face torn off and his neck on the wrong way, stumbling at his heels like some horrible real life example of middle school ghost stories. It made Jean shiver with excitement as much as it did with horror, and conversely he’d never felt so alive.

It was just starting to rain when he finally came up to his house and killed the power to his bicycle, letting it coast easily into a garage half filled with boxes. Jean leaned his bike against one of the sturdier looking piles and headed inside, unzipping his jacket in the sudden indoor heat. He heard conversation from the living room suddenly die, and that uneasy feeling from the scene of the car accident came back.

“Mom? Roy?”

“In here,” came his step-father’s voice, soft and gentle in ways Jean had never heard before. The last thing he wanted to do was step forward, but he did.

They were sitting on the couch together, facing each other like they’d been deep in conversation. His mother’s hazel eyes were bright with unshed tears, his stepfather’s dark and sympathetic. Jean took a step back, already on the defensive.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Marco Bodt,” his mother spoke softly, her typical calm wavering. “He was in a car accident this afternoon.”

His mouth felt dry, the air thick like cotton in his throat and he dreaded the answer… but he had to know. He had to ask.

“Where?”

“Just a few blocks from here, he… his car was hit in the middle of an intersection-- Jean!?”

He hadn’t noticed his legs buckling until he’d stumbled, caught himself against the wall as his mother fairly leapt off the couch. “No, Mom, I’m okay. Just… give me a moment.” And it was true, he was fine. He would be fine in a few minutes. “Do we know…? If he…”

He wanted, or at least he meant to ask if Marco suffered, but his mother shook her head, blonde hair shifting to hide her eyes from view - she brushed them aside moments later, her other hand still hovering as she tried to reach for her son’s shoulder.

“He was rushed to the hospital, but they don’t think he’ll make it through the night. They’re only letting immediate family visit him, otherwise we could--”

“Don’t worry about it.” Jean heard his voice answer the statement from far away. “I’m gonna go upstairs and… go to bed or something. Okay?”

Roy nodded, his expression tight. “I’ll be heading over to the Bodt’s in the morning, in either case.” Jean wanted to snort with derisive laughter - either case, as if there was more than one option - but he couldn’t summon up the emotion for it just yet. So he stumbled upstairs, closing the door to his bedroom and waking up the computer so that pale while light trickled into the room, sharpening the edges of the furniture.

His hands shook as he stood on weak legs beside his desk, threw his jacket on his bed from force of habit. Then it hit him. It had been Marco’s blood he’d seen splattered all over the pavement like some sick sort of artwork, Marco’s car who had been flipped and rolled across the intersection, Marco’s ghost that had haunted him for miles afterwards. Marco’s blood that was washing away in the rain this very moment, going, going, gone.

Jean’s eyes landed on a notification at the bottom of his screen - he sat at his desk, found his mouse and, clicking on it, saw an unread message from Marco that had arrived sometime that morning. Clicking on it, he was greeted with nothing but an attachment of a song and a short message.

 

_I know I promised this for you a while back, but I kind of forgot about it until now. It’s the swing song you liked so much from that old computer game - did you know that by now it’s almost 100 years old?_

_But I get it by now. I messed things up, and I’m sorry, but I’ll be all right. I’m not gonna bother you any more after this but I kind of figured I at least owed it to you to fulfil my promise._

_Be safe in the big city,_

_Marco_

_attached:[bie_mir_bist_du_schon.mp3](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=grE-fys4P-g)_

 

He downloaded the file with a lump in his throat he couldn’t quite swallow; and soon, the static-crusted horn melody began to play. Jean suck in a sharp breath as the voices joined in, filling the room with lyrics so old and yet so familiar to him.

 _“Of all the boys I’ve known and I’ve known some, before I first met you I was lonesome…_ ”

Without really thinking, Jean moved his cursor up to the reply option, and started to type out an answer.

 

_thanks for the music, marco. you dont have to avoid me, dude, it’s just tht you’ve been one of my closest friends for so long. it’s not that there’s anything wrong with being gay or with you at all. i just dont think that i could love yu like that, you kow?_

 

Hot tears were slowly rolling down his cheeks by now, but Jean refused to so much as wipe them away. His message was riddled with typos and errors, but he didn’t care about that either.

 

_and thats why i dint want to talk to you, because i dont want to give you any kind of flse hope for something i might nevr be able to give you._

_i already miss you_

_jean_

 

Jean’s hand shook as he moused over two options at the bottom of the screen. Then, with a swift tap of his fingers, he deleted the message and killed the power on his laptop. Ignoring his homework entirely, he rolled into bed onto the covers and stared at the ceiling until the rain stopped and weak moonlight slipped, almost apologetically, through his curtains.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, he attended a memorial service for Marco Bodt. Jean stood dry eyed as the community poured out their affection and support to nothing but a few candles and a slideshow playing on a small digital picture frame.

 

* * *

 

Two months later, he carried the last of his boxes to the family car and as a family they sped away from his old home, driving straight through an intersection with faint tire tracks still on the surface.

  

* * *

 

He was not going to be okay.


	2. Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops style shift
> 
> also feel free to occasionally check the [tag](http://lostlegendaerie.tumblr.com/tagged/render-au) on my blog for random render-related shenanigans and also feel free to drop any kind of ask about things that didn't get covered in the story beCAUSE LET ME TELL U

It’s harder to wake up this morning for some reason, so Jean lies in bed and rolls restlessly under the blankets, nearer to thirty than twenty year old with a bad haircut and a worse attitude. His pillow is damper than usual, and he sits up to glare at the dark spots through sleep-hazed eyes. The blotches on the fabric confirm his concerns, along with the distinct taste in his mouth.

He’s been crying in his sleep again.

It’s been an on and off sort of thing most of his life. He’d gone to the psychiatrist a few times, and that was always the same old shit - unresolved issues with abandonment, family death and all the fixings. And it’s not like the visits didn’t help, but despite his efforts it - the exhaustion, the anger, the waking up with the taste of tears in his mouth - persisted. Few traumatic events in life allow for a zipper-like ease of closure, especially not the abrupt passing of his parents just a couple years back, but it’s been a while. He’d thought himself over it. Yet, he supposes, in a resentful fashion, it’s not like life will just give you one or two big hurdles to get over and then it’s smooth sailing until death. Each time he felt like he’d crawled out of the pit the side would cave in and he’d slide back down again.

This morning, the emotion of pain is still heavy in his chest, and he tries to follow it back to its source - to remember the dream - but it’s too late and any images or scenarios he could have actually understood were gone. All he’s left with is the brief image of red paint smeared on a canvas, and wet on his fingertips. Not exactly useful information.

It’s a Thursday, so he’s almost to the end of the week, but it also means he’s pretty burnt out by now. Still, he manages to throw back the covers to the chill air of his apartment - a truly heroic feat; he should join the greats,  _Sing to me Muses of the thrift of Jean, who sacrifices heating for beer_ \- and rise to shuffle away from the stained bedding.

Once in the kitchen, he discovers a tragic flaw from yesterday. He’s left the milk out on the counter - unscrewing the cap, he swills the white chalky fluid around in the bottom of the container, taking an experimental whiff, which turns into an experimental taste and an experimental gag. Mournfully, he pours the half cup or so of dairy down the drain. It’s not worth medical bills and wasted work if he gets food poisoning again.

He pops a breakfast pot pie in the microwave to cook as he runs to the bathroom, brushing his teeth and taking a quick piss before the timer dings. His hair is still the same dyed-blond top and undercut sides low-maintenance look he’s had since early high school and while it’s rather depressing to admit it’s been the same for almost ten years, he doesn’t really feel like changing it.

It’s part of his identity now, and it’s weird and dumb but it’s  _his_  hair, and it only takes a few frisks of his fingers to style it into a socially acceptable manner.

Pants, socks, shoes and a fresh shirt go on in due time as he paces between kitchen and bedroom getting ready for work with the steady drone of the news playing from his desk, where his phone sits in its charging cradle. He could check it to see what the temperature is outside, but instead Jean just places his palm against the old glass window in the dining room, feeling the severe chill seep into his skin.

Definitely cold enough to justify bringing along a jacket.

He layers, a turtleneck under a thin but insulated parka, and with his work boots and jeans he looks disturbingly like a criminal. But the slogan on the back of his jacket screams _Sina Manufacturing_ in electric blue bright enough to be seen from a sniper’s nest on a skyscraper, so he should be good.

With a vague feeling of hesitation - if not resentment because it is cold and early and he kind of hates mornings - Jean opens the side window, crawls through it and enters a world of steel and sound.

The fire escape shakes under his feet as he takes the shortcut to the rails, chips of rusted metal likely flaking away to land on the alleyway two stories below if they hadn’t already. He’s been taking this route for months, since it’s practically an hour off his travel time if he just goes straight up. Cars roaring by send wind and noise to funnel in the narrow space between his building and the next one over, resonating off the brick, but it’s background static to his chilling ears as he goes up one, two more sets of stairs.

And finally from here, he can see the sky.

The Sinapolis air is still stale with pollutants, but up here he can breathe and see - unhindered by the monorails in construction above the streets - a jagged skyline set against a canvas of cloud-muted early morning gold. Once the trains are operational, the slats of sheet metal and wire where the workers tread three stories above private cars will be removed, and the whole setup will be much sleeker. At the moment, however, very little light makes it down below the several mile stretch where Jean’s supposed to work.

Outside his door, however, only a few of the metal slats are still in place, hovering on the thick cables parallel to the stripe of railway that straddles the street below, and he’s lucky they’re still there. Jean takes in a breath as he jumps onto the handrail of the fire escape, then steps carefully to the inches-wide belt of concrete jutting around the apartment complex, flattening himself to the rough brick. Stone claws at the front of his jacket, trying to snag on the synthetic leather surface but never quite catching - his face isn’t so lucky, and his ear scrapes along a little too close to the brick as he sidles around to the front, chest flat against the building.

He’s been doing this every morning as the main construction site inches further and further towards the heart of the city, but it’s still nerve wracking as he glances over his shoulder once, twice - then takes a massive step back.

Metal clangs under his boot - fingers still clinging as best as he can to the brick, Jean shifts his weight slightly onto the metal, testing to make sure it’ll hold. The cables creak reassuringly under his test, and with a fierce push, Jean shoves himself backwards off the brick and onto a slat of left over, bolted down steel. The morning dew would have made it slick if it wasn’t already rusting in places, but he’s still careful as he practically hop-scotches across uneven patches of metal on cable to reach the comforting solidity of the railway.

If it wasn’t so high up, Jean could almost pretend he was jogging down an ordinary sidewalk - but instead of being a deterrent, the sense of vertigo as he glances at the world below gives him a sense of joy. He trusts his body and the metal plates to keep him safe, and he speeds down the concrete and titanium railway with a whistle on his lips.

 

* * *

 

Throughout his day, one filled with the same old stuff he’s been doing for months now - monitor the machines that do all the work and stop whatever he’s doing every fifteen minutes to be called in to ‘discuss a plan of action’ by one of his bosses and/or help them find another subtle way to fit more gourmet coffee into their company-ordained budgets - Jean’s still been weighed down by a feeling of melancholy. Maybe he’s forgotten something, like taking flowers to his parent’s graves back in the town of his childhood, Trost--

Red flashes in his memory again, stark and dark against something grey, but why can’t he remember anything more useful? Jean scowls and forces his eyes to focus on the display of the bolt-drilling machine as it contentedly purrs its way down the line at a crawl, magnetically screwing in smooth-topped bolts. He makes sure it always finishes the job with the pinnacle of modern technology - by prodding at the bolts with a stick.

Hell of a way to spend a bachelor’s degree in mechanical engineering, he thinks, trying to fit himself back into his default state of passive, misanthropic apathy. But the feeling of pain just won’t shake today, and when the notification pops up on the display that he’s being summoned by his supervisors, he prays to a God he’s not sure exists that it’s the end of the workday. Jean taps the parking brake with something like fondness as the machine settles down with a muted whine, and pops his earplugs out to shove them in his pocket.

The clouds from this morning still patch the sky in most places, messing with his usual ability to tell the passage of time by the color of the sunlight that makes its way through the choked atmosphere. Thankfully, it’s not yet too dark for him to really be concerned about the placement of his feet as he steps off the solid stripe in the center of the patchy metal lane above the city streets, but he still sees the blur of headlines zooming below him. Jean wonders if it’s something like an urban version of a lily-pad choked lake in summer, with the lights of fireflies dancing across the surface, reflecting like underwater mobile stars.

God, what is even wrong with him today? He makes a minor face as he reaches the little mobile cabin they’d dubbed the Nest that runs on the outermost sets of cables, where his manager sits and drinks coffee in warmth and comfort as he argues with his superior. Always a bigger fish, he guesses, though this metaphor probably just leaves him as bait. Gross.

“You called me?” he asks rhetorically as he steps inside, the warm interior almost uncomfortable as he closes the door behind him.

Verman takes another sip of his coffee with trembling hands, a little dribble almost catching in his stunted, scraggly beard before he wipes it off on the sleeve of his coat. The caffeine probably doesn’t help the deep black bags under his eyes, and it’s certainly never helped his temper.

“Kirstein,” he starts, voice hoarse like he’s already screamed himself raw for the day - which he probably has - and eyes not straying from the monitors in front of him, “do you mind telling me why you’re a day behind the rail-laying team?”

Oh, this again. He rolls his eyes behind a long blink. “As I told Hannes--”

“Do I look like I’m fucking Hannes?”

Jean bites back a retort along the lines of ‘ _you don’t look like you’re fucking anyone, sir_ ,’ and manages to finish. “--there was a miscalculation with the number of bolts needed, and we had to order more. I caught the mistake before we ran out entirely, but we still had to wait about a week for the bolts to come in.”

“And who made the initial calculation?”

“Not sure, sir.” Actually, Jean was almost certain it was Verman himself, but it’s not worth bringing up if the neurotic man would only deny it.

His boss nods slowly, eyes hooded as he squints at some displeasing figure. “And what are you doing to make sure that you catch up with your coworkers?”

This question catches him a bit off guard. “Well-- the machine can only go so fast--”

“I said. What are you doing to catch up?”

It’s a trick question, since Jean knows there’s no such thing as overtime here. “Make sure we don’t make any more mistakes,” he offers instead, very subtly reaching a hand behind his back to extend a middle finger.

Verman grunts and dismisses him with a wave, and the blond may or may not remember to relax his hand on his way out of the office.

It’s the same old, same old - just a trickle down of distain and contempt until it reaches the bottom tier of workers, but it doesn’t make Jean feel any better. Especially when he considers the fact that he’s basically selling himself for a fraction above minimum wage, trying to keep ahead of his still lingering student debt even with his parent’s inheritance. He really hates to use their money since it’d feel tainted with blood and ash - he’d lost them both in a freak house fire just a couple years ago, and it’s especially days like today that he misses them both.

But there’s nothing else he can do for the moment but keep his head down, run the machine, and wait for yet another day in his life to just end.

 

* * *

 

It’s too risky to try to parkour his way home at the end of a long day, so he follows the trail of his coworkers - most of whom are temporary workers from other parts, and their accents are too thick for him to understand so he just isolates himself further - to the nearest bare-bones loader on wheels and tramps down the fragile iron stairs. it’s a long way down and the temporary staircase sways with the movement, but Jean’s never minded the feeling. It still makes some of the other men queasy, and he smirks a bit to himself as he hears the distorted swears of those who had made it safely to solid ground, then he’s among them and walking the mile or two back to his apartment alone.

He’s been lucky for a while now, and he knows it - last few months or so the railway’s been under construction right outside his door, so he’s been fine without a vehicle. But pretty soon he’s either going to have to pony up the cash himself or start trying to carpool to work again, especially since the air gets more of a frigid bite to it with each passing day.

The rushing sound of traffic, the shouts of people both with joy or rage, the cacophony of city life is white noise as Jean reflects once more on his feeling of melancholy. Maybe… maybe he’s just lonely, and he should get a cat or something. Maybe he just needs someone in his life to care if he actually wakes up in the morning. The closest he has to that sort of friend is Armin, a friend from high school who’s a resident pediatrician on the other side of Sinapolis, but they speak once a month at the most.

Fuck, he doesn’t-- he doesn’t know anything, all he knows is that he keeps seeing splashes of red when he closes his eyes and something hurts like a broken bone that healed the wrong way. Something’s wrong, he’s wrong, and maybe tonight he’ll just get drunk and go through the photo albums of his parents and cry out all the pain that just keeps growing back. It’s not like him, and that’s probably the worst part of it all.

“Why the long face?”

His glare is instant, reflexive - but the subject of his sudden attention is entirely unfamiliar to him. There’s no way that she’d intentionally use the tease of his childhood yet the knowledge doesn’t make him feel much better. A petite little ashen blond in a tidy pea coat and a scarf is watching him from the edge of the sidewalk, just by the crosswalk. The sign flashes to walk, but she’s not moving. He isn’t either, held a few feet away by her traffic-light green eyes and a smile that looks too thin and stretched for her small face.

“Do I know you?”

“No, but that could change.” Her smirk widens, and he tries to check her cheeks for evidence of scar tissue because the expression is just… unsettlingly unnatural. “You don’t happen to be… Jean Kirstein, do you?” she purrs.

“I...” He glances around them, half-searching for some kind of escape. The woman is attractive, yes, and if he’s honest she’s probably even his type, but he doesn’t remember her face at all. “I am, yeah.”

“I thought so. You look like your father.”

Her smile doesn’t flicker, but that short phrase makes him go cold, despite the preexisting chill in the air. It’s a lie, obviously; Roy was only his stepfather, and they looked nothing alike. Unless she was referring to--

He couldn’t keep the ice out of his tone if he tried. “My _father_?”

She walks towards him, her steps towards him fluid and serpentine, and Jean watches her approach carefully. Alarms are going off in the back of his head, to run away from this woman and never look back, but...

“If I told you I was an old friend of your family,” she poses the question with a small, hopeful little smile, “would you believe me?”

“Not really,” he evades, turning back to face the street and the endless sea of traffic. “I didn’t see you at my parent’s funeral.”

 She makes a clicking noise with her tongue, and out of the corner of his eye he watches her face the street as well, tapping the toe of her knee-high heeled boot like an impatient video game character. “Fair enough. I offer my condolences, anyway, and a job offer if you want it.”

“A job offer.”

“You may not know me, but I know you, Mr. Kirstein.” She sidesteps until they’re shoulder to shoulder, like lovers cozying up together; but her body is still cold against his. “Call me if you ever want to put that engineering degree to some real use, okay? Ask for Hitch.”

As if on cue, the traffic light changes, and Jean feels her gloved hand tuck something into his just before she steps into the flow of pedestrians, light blonde hair catching the last light in the grey evening of Sinapolis.

He examines the small rectangle of paper: it’s nothing fancy, just the name  _V. Lilith Hitch_  with an email and phone number, along with a stylized logo of a jade-colored horse’s head on a shield alongside the slogan –

 

“ _Kingsguard Robotics and Prosthetics; Where Life is Evergreen_ ”

 

Jean almost wants to pitch the business card right then and there, but Hitch’s words are a little too weird to be ignored. Paranoid to the last, he pockets the card and heads home. One glance he tosses over his shoulders confirms that she’s still there, walking away; one becomes several and he almost walks into traffic at least once. She’s interesting, irritating and unsettling all at the same time, and his mind buzzes with thoughts all the way home.

He unlocks the door to the apartment complex with a swipe of his ID card, plodding up the stairs to his second-floor apartment which swings open with a creak as he pockets his keys. Jean’s tired and he just wants a nap and a hot shower and to not be here for a few hours - but the blinking light on his computer in the bedroom notifies him of unread email messages. He sighs and locks the door behind him, running his fingers through his hair as he fetches a beer from the kitchen - his second to last, he’ll have to take the bus and a backpack to the store this weekend - then he slinks into his bedroom. It’s a cluttered mess and he has to pick his way around piles of clothes, but he makes it to his desk without stepping on anything breakable, settles into his chair and gets to checking his notifications.

There’s spam, as there always is, but one of the messages catches his eyes.

 

From:  **Rico Brzenska, Attorney at Law**  
RE:  **The Last Will and Testament of Dr. Maes Hughes Bodt**

 

He clicks it, cautious, his heart pounding in his chest as red flashes in the back of his mind. Bodt, Bodt… he hadn’t heard that name since his step-father’s funeral, when a condolence card arrived in the mail three days after his parent’s memorial service.

Oh, God, not… not him, too. A family friend from back home in Trost. He remembers him faintly, dark hair and glasses, a broad smile and an almost obnoxious level of enthusiasm. It was kind of amusing to see him interact with his son because of their countering dispositions. Marco had always been responsible, if a little too serious at times.

It hurts because it’s another drop in the bucket, another life snuffed out. He wishes he’d known earlier - maybe he could have attended the service if he’d known…?

Pushing aside any further conjecture, Jean selects the message.

 

_Good morning, Mr. Kirstein,_

_I am contacting you regarding the last will and testament of Dr. Maes Hughes Bodt, who died on the Twelfth of October due to a heart attack. Please accept my sincerest apologies if this is the first you are hearing of this news, which may be very likely as it was only this morning that my office received the news that both Elizabeth Kirstein-Mustang and her husband Roy are deceased. As this is the case, you are to receive both your step-father’s share of Bodt’s will and yours, which includes the sum of five hundred thousand dollars and will be available to you in full following the finalization of sale of the house._

_You are encouraged to come to my office at 1087 Laterose Drive, Seaxern, KO at the earliest possible date. Failing this, the remainder of Dr. Bodt’s fortune will, as his will states, be dissolved and donated to a selection of charities._

_I look forward to meeting you,_

_Rico Brzenska_

 

 Jean sits back in his chair, the breath coming out of him in a whoosh as he sighs. Heavy stuff to come home to.

He remembers his dream, then; remembers paint and blood and the smell of the candles at a memorial service. And knows with a cold, detached certainty, that he just became a little more alone.

 


	3. Figures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no idea how to write armin when he's not a sobbing shota i'm sorry
> 
> also fRICK I fixed the spelling errors of the previous chapter i am the pinnacle of shame someone please show me to the door of the fandom i hecked up
> 
> also also last part some of you will likely recognise from tumblr from jeanmarco week kudos to you guys and basically ten thousand hugs to all the support so far i love you all and i would gladly sacrifice my theoretical firstborn to make sure i dont disappoint you guys

He doesn’t sleep well that night.

Jean stays up late, doing the kind of shallow digging typical of amateur investigative work. There’s a brief little news article about how Bodt had died of a heart attack and been mourned by remaining relatives - few to none direct, but there was a mention of his deceased wife and child. Mrs. Brenska has her own website, one that’s sleek and up to date, along with various listings on business directory sites. As far as he can tell, it checks out. But that just leaves him with more questions.

An inheritance? Why? Perhaps he’s related to Maes in some backwards, trailer-park-drama sort of way. Perhaps it’s just defaulted on him, as Roy’s adopted son - Maes and Roy had been extremely close - and as the last of so many bloodlines. It’s a cold reminder of how everyone around him keeps dropping like flies, leaving him with a handful of high school and community college friends and a dizzying sense of his own mortality.

Even after he gives up and goes to bed, Jean wakes up countless times during the night, his mind buzzing with information and questions; scenes from his childhood involving the (overly) cheerful professor and his (overly) affectionate son. He missed Marco. He would miss his father just as much.

… He misses  _a lot_  of people.

Jean sighs and stares at the pitch-dark ceiling, but this time he doesn’t roll over and trying to force his body to rest, instead grabbing his phone and dialing Armin’s number on impulse. It rings, the sound hollow in the spaces between his ragged breaths as he feels sweat clinging to his skin from his tossing and turning, then a sleepy voice answers his wordless pleas.

_“Hello?”_

“Hey, Armin?” He’s relieved to hear the answer, and smiles a bit into the receiver. “Are you doing anything tomorrow? I need a ride to Seaxern.”

_“Hang on… by tomorrow, do you mean Friday? What time is it even?”_

“I mean Saturday. It’s… a little past 4am,” he answers, after checking the display on his phone. He only feels a little guilt when Armin sighs into the phone.

_“This better be good, Jean. I have work in a couple hours.”_

“Y’see, I got this… this email from some lawyer, sayin’ that I’ve got five hundred thousand bucks in inheritance from Dr. Bodt. Do you remember him? Old, nutty professor type…”

 _“It’s not ringing a bell,”_  Armin replies, either exhausted or apologetic or both, Jean can’t tell.

He swallows, bracing himself for the memory as he adds, “… Marco’s dad.”

 _“… Oh. Oh. Yeah, I remember him.”_  There’s a shifting sound, and Jean pictures Armin sitting up in bed, maybe flicking on a light and grabbing a pen and pad of paper.  _”So, what do you need me for?”_

“I need you to drive me to Seaxern to pick everything up from this laywer’s office on Saturday. Which is technically tomorrow.”

_“Have you made sure this isn’t a scam?”_

“Yeah, yeah, as far as I can tell everything checks out. I mean, if

nothing else I guess we’ll see how official the building looks when we check it out, yeah?”

 _“That’s the thing, Jean,”_  and Armin’s voice is definitely apologetic this time, _”I can’t drive you. I’m meeting with some people from Wings of Freedom - have you heard about them?”_

“Yes, constantly and always from you.” Jean makes a face of frustration, kind of forgetting the fact that he has no right to sass someone he’s woken up at 4am. “But at the moment I’ve kind of got enough on my plate right now to not hear you babble about biotechnology and the future of the medical industry. Maybe we can have movie night on Sunday, but I need to get a ride and I don’t know if my destination is gonna harvest my kidneys and sell them on the black market.”

Armin’s quiet for a moment - they both are, as Jean tries to make his stressed, sleep deprived mind function logically.

_“You could take a private transport?”_

“Do I act like I’ve got the cash for a taxi?”

_“Says a man who is apparently inheriting five hundred thousand dollars. I think you can afford a taxi, Jean, or rent a car. You’ve still got your license, right?”_

“… Taxi it is, then.”

 

* * *

 

On his way to work that morning, his body worn down from stress and lack of rest, Jean’s boot misses the first step backwards off the building. The sensation of falling hits him hard, takes his breath away and it takes a herculean effort to shift his weight back against the brick - fingertips digging into the rough surface, stomach muscles snapping taut as he leans away from the near-fall. Once he’s safe, he gives himself a moment to breathe before trying again, but not even the sudden surge of adrenaline can make him feel less foggy and distracted. He jogs down the railway away, watching clouds of his breath plume into the air before him, and clocks in without any more missteps.

After the night he’d had, Jean supposed it wasn’t too much to ask for the universe to cut him a break. But apparently, the forces that be had other plans, and over halfway through the day the screen on the bolting machine flashes an angry red that he’s being summoned. He suppresses a groan and taps the brakes on the contently purring machine, checks the most recently laid bolts out of habit, and heads to the Nest.

Verman meets him halfway there, already screaming something, and Jean seriously considers just leaving his earplugs in and nodding along. Stiil, he’s got the sense and self-preservation to at least pull out one of the soft foam plugs and catch the end of his manager’s sentence.

“--hazards! Kirstein, if you don’t go fucking fix this I swear I’m going to throw you off the side of these rails myself!”

“Excuse me?”

Spittle peppers Jean’s cheeks as Verman leans in close, eyes huge in their sunken sockets, the effect unnerving but not entirely unfamiliar. “Your bolts are fucking loose, Kirstein! For we don’t even know how many miles! Do you know how fucking serious this is?

“That’s impossible,” he snaps, stepping forward and raising the baton he uses to check each bolt. “The machine hasn’t yet dropped a bad bolt that I haven’t fixed. Where are these loose bolts?”

“Everywhere! Go back and check your own damn work, Kirstein,” and he points back a few blocks where a serious looking individual is standing guard by the tracks, clipboards clung close to their coated form. Jean strides briskly back down the railway, baton over his shoulder as his gaze sweeps over this morning’s work. Each bolt looks smooth and flush with the base of the rails, as they should be - he checks one by placing the end of the baton above the head of the bolt, tapping a trigger mechanism that activated the spinning magnet at the end. If the bolt had been in any way loose, it would have hummed its way deeper - but as it didn’t, it made an angry little growling noise as it tried to burrow into concrete and steel not prepared for it.

But he spots the telltale ring of darkness around the loose bolt even before he gets there, and mutters a curse as he spins it tight with a tap of his baton. The inspector, a woman with dark hair and a young face, gives him a serious look.

“How far back do these go?” Jean dares to ask, glancing down the line and feeling his stomach sink.

“Miles,” she answers, her grey eyes serious. “Not every one of them, but a few. Maybe five percent or so.”

“Impossible,” he snarls. “I check every single bolt the machine lays down, and maybe a dozen times I’ve had to spin them in manually. There’s no fucking way so many of these are loose without something like…”

He doesn’t finish the thought, but sabotage crosses his mind. His expression is already darkening with anger when a hand catches him on the shoulder, knocking him off balance as he’s spun around to face his manager again.

“You’re going to fix every last goddamn one of these bolts, Kirstein. Tonight. No overtime.”

“Like fuck I am!” Jean jerks himself out of Verman’s grip, his eyes blazing with equal rage. He’s worn out, worn down and not thinking entirely clearly. “I did these right the first time, and if you want me working extra I am getting fucking paid for it!”

“You’ll do as I say or your ass is fired!”

His hand tightens on the baton as he pictures himself working alone in the frigid dark, pacing the railway back for miles… then he thinks on what he hopes to be doing tomorrow, and something in him snaps. He doesn’t have to take something like this anymore, not if his inheritance is real; and that’s a risk he’s willing to take.

Jean throws the baton down at Verman’s feet, tilting his chin up as he sneers at his manager.

“Then consider this my two week notice.”

He doesn’t stand there another extra second, shoving past the dumbstruck man and marching down the railway, his head held high but his hands shakes as he tears off his company jacket and tosses it at his nearest coworker. No one says a single word, the other equipment having been shut down at the spectacle, and the silence is horrifying, deadly. Any moment, Jean expects to have a roaring Verman grab him by the arm, and his hands try to convulse into fists so he shoves them in his pockets as he storms down the trembling staircase.

There’s his money from his parent’s life insurance, plus the money from Professor Bodt so he should be all right, but his teeth are starting to click together by the time he reaches the solid ground of the street below. Not even his anger and frustration are enough to keep him warm, keep him from telling himself that he didn’t just quit the only job he’s ever known - aside from a few fast food joints in college - for nothing but a sore bit of temper, but the shaking doesn’t stop the whole way home.

Once he locks the door behind him, and he’s safe in his apartment, Jean stumbles over to the couch and curls up on it, wrapping himself in the fleece blanket he never remembers to drape over the back of the sofa. He needs a drink, he needs someone to talk to, he needs this job but he’s just thrown it away and in the morning he’s going to have to draw up the paperwork for quitting and call a taxi and--

God, he needs so much. It’s a hassle and a shame to be like this, and he only gives himself a good fifteen minutes of self pity before he bullies himself back into moving.

Jean groans as he stands, wrapping the blanket around him as he stands more for security than for warmth, and shuffles to his bedroom where in his precious computer sits. He needs to focus, break down his tasks into a bulleted list and work on them one at a time - that’s what Armin always suggests, anyways. And hey, look at that, he’s got a few extra hours today to work.

 

To: **Rico Brzenska, Attorney at Law**  
From:  **Jean Kirstein**  
RE: RE:  **The Last Will and Testament of Dr. Maes Hughes Bodt**

_Good evening,_

_I can be there mid-afternoon tomorrow. Does around 3pm work for you?_

_J. Kirstein_

 

He taps send, then flips on the desk lamp and spends the next couple hours doing all the little things he’s been meaning to do for ages to soothe his raw nerves. He balances his checkbook, cleans up the laundry from his floor and checks the pocket of every sweatshirt and pair of jeans he owns until he finds enough spare coins to justify making a shopping trip just for booze. Slipping the cash into his wallet, Jean then sorts the trash into little piles of different types - recycling, paper recycling, and trash to take out to the dumpster. It’s just little things to burn off nervous energy as he waits to hear back from the lawyer, but they needed to be done.

His computer pings as he’s tying the trashbag closed in the other room, and Jean fairly sprints back to see the reply.

 

To:  **Jean Kirstein**  
From:  **Rico Brzenska, Attorney at Law**  
RE: RE: RE:  **The Last Will and Testament of Dr. Maes Hughes Bodt**

_I believe this time should be satisfactory. Please let me know if you suspect you might be late._

_Rico Brzenska_

 

This time, he already knows he isn’t going to be sleeping, so he busies himself with washing dishes, cooking dinner (also known as microwaving a frozen pre-prepared meal) and eating it in front of the old TV, throwing the trash out the window into the alley dumpster, and only retiring when he couldn’t hardly see with exhaustion.

Tomorrow, if he was lucky, he’d start a brand new life.

 

* * *

 

He’s explained the situation to the taxi driver, but Jean still feels a strong sense of paranoia as he stands and shuts the car door behind him. Said driver simply kills the engine and pulls out a packet of cigarettes, withdrawing one of the smooth white sticks of cancer-causing contraband and lighting up.

“Don’t you have some errand to run, kid?” rasps the blond man, his faint mustache doing nothing to hide his smirk as Jean glances over his shoulder with trepidation.

“Aahhh,” he starts, an insult at the ready, then decides it’s really not in his best interest to harass his only way home. Snapping his mouth closed, Jean just jerks his jacket a little closer with a decisive movement and enters the building. It looks official enough, with the names of a few other lawyers engraved on the glass windowpane of the entrance door, but he’s still not entirely abandoned the idea on the kidney thing. Even with Salvaging slowly gaining in popularity, there were those who’d do anything to keep themselves from going past that hated thirty percent - no matter how illegal it was.

He finds the door with R. Brzenska etched on the foggy glass, knocks carefully on the door frame, and waits. He hopes he’d dressed up enough, with grey denim pants, a black leather jacket and the cleanest white shirt he could find, but he still feels rather unprofessional and kid-like in front of this office.

So when the door opens to a rather short, silver-haired woman with large glasses and narrowed steely eyes, he feels even less like he belongs in her company.

“Are you… Mrs. Bir-zen-ska?”

“I am. And you must be…” She trails off, raising an eyebrow and waiting for him, apparently, to fill in the blanks.

“Jean Kirstein. I’m here to discuss my share of Professor Bodt’s estate?”

She nods smoothly, to his relief, and ushers him inside. Her office is plush and polished, filled with gleaming wooden surfaces and richly colored red chairs, the smaller of which is on the near side of an immaculate desk. Mrs. Brzenska offers him this seat as she takes the other, fixing a few of the pens held in a glass vase near the corner of her desk.

“You may call me Rico, mostly to prevent any further butchering of my last name in that rural tongue of yours.”

Irked, Jean replies with the first idea to spring to his mind, which is, unfortunately, an insult. “If you hate your name so much, why don’t you just get married and change it?”

Rico fixes him with the iciest stare he’s received in years, then her face settles back into a mask of professionalism. He crosses his arms and settles a little deeper into his chair, feeling thoroughly dismissed. Damn, what’s been with him and vicious, poker faced women? First that Hitch from the street corner, now this one… There are probably permanent teeth marks on his ankles by now, from all his metaphorical foot-in-mouth placement.

“Let’s not draw this business out any longer, shall we? I charge by the hour, and as I’ve already had to deal with some rather unpleasant distant relatives of the deceased, I’d very much like to move on with both our lives.”

She withdraws a small, navy checkbook from somewhere in her desk, retrieves a pen as she nudges its comrades back into perfect order, and with no further words writes out a series of shapes that he finds himself counting. _One, two, three, four, five_ \- five zeroes.

He swallows. It’s real. It’s actually real.

Rico tears off the check with a smooth decisive movement that has Jean’s heart pounding in his chest. Five hundred thousand dollars, not quite metaphorically and not quite literally, is almost in his reach. He almost swears there’s a triumphant march playing somewhere in the distance.

“Oh,” and she pulls the paper a little closer to her body, blue eyes still impassive behind her glasses. “There is one last thing.”

And he would bet a third of his check that the lawyer had waited for this exact moment to bring this up for the theatrics. Jean rolls his eyes and sighs.

“Of course. What’s the big twist? Am I secretly Bodt’s biological son this whole time? I can’t really think of any other reason why I’d get half his entire estate. I mean I’m not complaining, but of course there’s a catch. So,” and he laces his fingers together in a way that’s way too obviously a nervous tick, so he reaches his arms up to cup the back of his skull with his hands. “Hit me.”

Rico leans back in her chair slightly, mocking his posture. “You have to keep Maes Bodt’s Salvage in your possession - and in working order. If anything happens to it, the inheritance is to be liquidated and donated as well.”

“Salvage? You mean, like… one of those hybrids? The robot zombies?” Jean’s not the kind of person to believe hype, but he’s seen the propaganda against them - empty husks, animated corpses, inhuman remains repurposed to continue a miserable existence of half-life. They’d once been hailed a medical miracle, the next evolution in prosthetics - but as they’d advanced, often the results had ended up smack in the middle of the uncanny valley. Many had been even destroyed and stripped for parts, then sold on black markets often alongside their intact, in-human counterparts. The ones who hadn’t were either very good at concealing their status… or locked away and kept by eccentrics.

“It’s hardly a zombie, Kirstein. If nothing else, Bodt took very good care of his… possessions. I use the term since this particular Salvage’s synthetic parts cross the 30% threshold, thus you need not consider it a human.” Rico’s gaze raises to a spot behind Jean’s shoulder, and she nods almost imperceptibly. “Of course, since the house has to be sold the Salvage has had to stay in a storage locker for the last couple of days, so I must insist you take it home with you today. Is that possible?”

“Well, I mean, I’ve got a couch at home and enough cash for the taxi fare, but--”

“I didn’t ask if it was _easy_. I asked if it was _possible_.” Rico holds the check between two hands - she can’t quite threaten to tear it, not really, but the threat is still enough to make Jean’s palms sweat awkwardly at the back of his neck.

After yesterday’s fiasco, and his pride will never allow him to take back what he said to Verman, he doesn’t really have a choice, does he?

“Yeah, I can do it. Where’s this Salvage, anyway?”

The door creaks open behind him, and Jean gives a casual look over his shoulder, refusing to buy into Rico’s desire for a reaction. But _nothing_ could have prepared him for the sight that walked into the lawyer’s office like he belonged there - in the land of the living.

“Holy shit,” Jean swears, getting out of his chair so fast it crashes to the floor, hands scrabbling all over Rico’s desk like he’s reaching for a weapon or a grip on his sanity. The Salvage stops dead in his tracks, the faint smile fading from the face it has left.

And the face he’s wearing is one that belonged to someone who had died almost ten years ago.

“… Jean?” it asks, cautiously.

A gasp wrenches its way out of Jean’s throat, and he claps a hand across his mouth, feeling nauseous. The voice is the same, too, and he’s torn between terror, hatred, and transcendent joy. Because it’s so close to being really him - there’s the same straight dark hair, an absurd smattering of freckles over what’s left of his cheeks, and one brown eye is giving him that gentle, open look he remembers so fondly. But the rest…

“Salvage, meet your new owner, Jean Kirstein. He was friends with your father’s late son, whose name you share.”

The Salvage’s human eye blinks, and his throat moves as he swallows, glancing from Rico and back to Jean. The right side of his face from the brow down is half plated in metal that digs into scarred skin, covering - or more likely replacing - his entire eye socket area and the side of his jaw. Metal scales down the side of his neck to vanish into the collar of his sweater, and it shifts and makes a soft, whispery mechanical wheeze as the Salvage takes in a deep breath, lets it out slowly.

“I know who he is, Rico.”

Behind her desk, Rico’s tone is perfectly calm, professional. “Oh? Well, glad Maes didn’t will you on to a complete stranger. He could have done a better job letting Mr. Kirstein know, though, by the looks of it.”

Jean’s breathing is gradually slowing; not because he’s accepting these circumstances, but more because the logical side of his brain is screaming for him to calm down long enough to take the goddamn check and get home. He’s still got an entire weekend to get wasted and figure this shit out. So he forces his emotions - a thick, viscous blend of resignation and resentment at this point, for those at home keeping track - into a disused corner of his mind and offers the Salvage his hand.

“Good to, uh… Meet you, or something.”

The Salvage’s mouth opens silently, just a bit, just enough for Jean to see a couple glimpses of metal amidst the otherwise healthy looking pink tissue and off-white teeth. Then he closes it and raises a robotic hand.

The lighter haired man takes the appendage, carefully, trying to avoid letting the molded plastic catch his skin and pinch it between the seams of the joints. It’s cold to the touch, but seems receptive to body heat, and after a moment it’s not quite so chilled. Jean finds him raising their joined hands into his line of sight, adjusting the grip until his fingers fit between the robotic ones. The Salvage’s breathing stutters briefly, then he locks his fingers around Jean’s - gently, stiffly.

The Salvage continues talking, voice uneven and entirely too human. “This… probably is a huge shock to you. I’m sorry, my-- my looks aren’t helping this, right? I just recently got my arm adjusted and I haven’t gotten a new sleeve for it, so you’ve got to deal with all of this. You know. Raw and stuff. It’s really creepy, right?”

Jean looks into half a familiar face, wanting so badly, despite his reservations, to see the teenaged boy whose blood he’d seen smeared on the asphalt at an intersection just a couple miles from his childhood home. But before he can dwell too long on the chocolate-brown, coffee-warm eye on the left, his attention slides across the ruined face to the right side, where a large complicated looking dome fills in the space of the rebuilt socket. It doesn’t move, doesn’t seem to see - just flickers a ring of ice blue lights at him from underneath smooth glass, like a status light or a heartbeat monitor.

He pulls his fingers free, wipes his hand on his pants and looks back at the silver-haired lawyer behind them whose likely been rather enjoying the drama of this false reunion.

“I’ll take him home, now.”

Rico hands him the check without batting an eye, and Jean hastens out the door with the Salvage on his heels. It’s not Marco, not to him.

Marco died, and with him many other things were buried - things that Jean, at the moment, would rather ignore than dig up.

 


	4. Salvage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> render reached 1k hits real recently and i did [official reference art](http://lostlegendaerie.tumblr.com/post/72548442816/celery-bration-render-has-reached-1k-hits-im-so) of the Salvage's sexy-ass back as is kind of described here and then later on in more detail.
> 
> i love you all so very, very much i could kiss you all on the forehead. platonically and consensually. because every review makes me squeal and flail my arms when i read them. <3

To his credit, the taxi driver doesn’t start too badly when Jean opens the door to the back and shoves in a stammering, awkward Salvage. Of course, this may be more due to the fact that the lingering smoke in the car smells a little  _less than legal_  as opposed to being credit of the driver’s natural temperament. But Jean is just having a bad day and doesn’t care what the driver is smoking, so long as they don’t wreck on the thirty minute ride back to Sinapolis.

The two suitcases now in his possession are slid neatly into the trunk, where they share space with a tire iron, a tool box, and two bags of kitty litter - as he helps the Salvage load his luggage in, the faded printing on the bags leer up at him through upside-down feline eyes, and he fights the urge to shudder.

Yeah, that feeling of loneliness that hit him just a few mornings ago? Completely a delusion. Cats terrify Jean, and if nothing else he knows that no matter what kinds of turns his life takes, he will never end up watching seasons of CSI alone in a stuffy house filled with eleven mewing, hissing, litter-box-digging cats. They freak him out.

That bit of phobia behind him, he’s sitting on the Salvage’s robotic side - or he’s about to be, but in the middle of buckling in his seat belt, the soft voice of the car’s newest occupant stops him.

“H-hey, Jean? Can we… switch? I’d really like it if you weren’t on my blind side.”

Jean hesitates, sitting but not really settled, and gives the Salvage a curious look that he quickly realizes really _is_ going unseen. “But what about that-- that side of your face being so close to traffic?”

“Tinted windows, bud,” comments the taxi driver, and Jean rolls his eyes before scooting out of the car, walking around the back side thus being reminded again of the disturbingly distorted kitty faces on the hefty bags just inside the trunk, and reentering on the opposite side.

This is worse than sitting on the bad side, the replaced side, because it’s like sitting next to a ghost. Jean wants to stare just as much as he wants to close his eyes and look away - because this can’t be real, because Marco Bodt is dead and buried, he went to his memorial service and he saw his blood smeared all over the intersection that chill spring day.

He can’t even tell if this, this return of the dead best friend is a good thing or a bad thing. It’s just confusing and frightening and he needs to go home and hide, somewhere deep and dark and hazy where he can pretend that this isn’t really his life he’s living. But those are thoughts he had sworn he’d left behind the day he put his last living relative in the ground, and he does not want to ever go back there.

So he just sighs, closes his eyes, and scoots forward on the backseat until he can slouch himself into a decent mockery of a comfortable position. Surprisingly, thankfully, the Salvage - he can’t bring himself to call him/it anything else at the moment - stays silent and lets the radio chatter fill in the silence.

After a few minutes, his mind already starting to blur with exhausting, Jean mutters a question to the hybrid beside him, “Hey?”

“Yes, Jean?”

“Can… Can I call you Bodt? Just for now?”

The reply is a little slow when coming, but it’s certainly more subdued than the previous answers. “… All right.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” answers a voice - no,  _the_  voice; the voice that always woke him up in class with just enough time to respond to the teacher’s question, the voice that never spoke up loud enough for his own causes, the voice that still haunts the edge of his mind on his darkest days because Jean never did say he was sorry.

If Jean slept, it wasn’t for long; he dozed, drifted in and out of consciousness but never quite rolled onto the Salvage’s shoulder. He got rather close in some instances, because when the taxi finally stopped, Jean feels cold as he pulls away from the warm body beside him. Forking over the cash - “Keep the change, it’s only a quarter or so,” the Salvage offers when he chips in a few bucks of his own – he hauls his worn out body out of the vehicle.

They each take a suitcase, the Salvage carrying his in his human arm, and Jean makes a mental note to ask him about it later. At the moment he’s busy fiddling with the two different types of keys for the two different locked doors that keep his apartment safe from the outside world, and all he can really focus on is the fact that his inheritance really, really sticks out. Glowing blue eye set in a metal half of a face, off-white plastic plated robotic fingertips... He looks like a horror movie prop.

Jean pats his pocket suddenly for his wallet, paranoid about losing his check, and for a horrific moment he can’t feel its comfortable weight in his pants. His eyes widen and he sucks in a short breath, prepared to drop everything and sprint after the newly departing taxi, when--

“It’s in your hand, Jean.”

He looks over and then up at the half-man standing beside him, one eye warm with amusement. Jean glances away quickly, checking his hand. Sure enough, he’s got the wallet there, and he sighs with relief as he pulls out his ID card and swipes them in, holding the door by standing directly in its path as he hefts the luggage inside the lobby-like area.

“Quick,” he hisses, and nods to the staircase - the Salvage matches his haste and they fairly jog up the flights, the stairway ringing with their panting breaths and the odd, mechanical sound of his companion. But he doesn’t ask, doesn’t want to speak until they’re safe inside his apartment and he locks the door. It’s best to avoid running into his landlord, in case the rental agreement considers a Salvage a second occupant and jacks the price up.

Once inside, Jean heaves a sigh and leans against the door, resisting the urge to slide down it dramatically and curl up in the fetal position until the world seems less scary. Instead he shoves the rolling suitcase across the floor until it collides with the couch and flips over like a beetle to rock back and forth, distressed.

“I don’t have a cot or anything, but I was gonna make a grocery run tomorrow so I’ll pick up an air mattress then. I assume the couch is all right for tonight?” He nods in the direction of the overturned suitcase.

“Hmm? Yeah, yeah, it’s fine,” the Salvage replies, setting down his own load next to Jeans, albeit with a little more care. “I’ve probably got a cot in storage somewhere - I only brought the essentials, but when things get a little more settled I can bring in some more things. They’re technically yours now . L-like, if you wanna get a bigger apartment or something. Not that I’m saying you should, or anything, I mean, you should do whatever you really like and--”

“Bodt,” Jean cuts him off in a tone of voice that’s unusually calm, especially for him. “Please stop talking.”

The Salvage blinks one large, deep brown eye and watches Jean closely with it, his mouth closed and expression carefully blank. Jean takes in a breath, holds it for a count of five seconds, then lets it out slowly to the same count. He repeats this action once, twice more, before standing up straight and striding for his bedroom. Time to disappear for a bit.

“Couch is yours. Get comfortable or whatever. I’m not to be disturbed for a couple hours,” he starts - then pauses, pivots, and returns to the fridge to check it one last time for beer. Alas, his supply is empty, and he slumps off to his room a little more dispirited than before, shrugging off his jacket and dropping it carelessly outside his bedroom door moments before he closes it.

His guest - his inheritance, his perhaps not living but still breathing fine print - doesn’t make a sound above the occasional rustle and Jean drops onto his bed, rolls himself up into a Jean burrito in the sheets, and sleeps until darkness falls.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up to the sound of a knock, and a muffled voice calling him.

“Jean? Jean, are you up yet?”

The man in question groans, rolls over and tries to make sense as to why someone’s in his apartment and yelling at him through the wall. He’s never been good at mental math, and at the moment his thought process is something along the lines of one plus one equals pound sign exclamation point ampersand dollar sign sandwich. Therefore nothing makes sense and he hides deeper in the sheets.

“Your phone keeps going off,” insists the voice, “and it’s an alarm that says Beer.”

“Tell’em to call back, ‘m sleepy.”

“It’s an alarm.”

“Hit snooze.”

“It’s been going off for almost an hour, Jean.”

He unwraps himself from his toasty, worn soft blankets and stumbles to the door with a slurred but emphatic and very heartfelt “goddamn it,” and it’s only when he opens the door that he realizes why he recognizes the voice.

“Mar--”

The name is choked back in his mouth as he takes in the other side of the figure’s face, and he swallows the word with a bitter aftertaste. Marco is dead. Right. He’d almost forgotten.

Then his gaze travels down to the Salvage’s flesh hand, gently holding Jean’s phone as it continues to buzz and flash the eloquent message _BEER_. His mind is catching up to the moment - one plus one equals two sandwiches, two best friends, two room-mates and one of them is dead. His eyes widen a bit as he remembers what the alarm is for.

“Oh, shit, the store closes in an hour,” and Jean hunts around his room for his shoes, pulling them on and actually thankful that he slept in his jeans. His jacket gets grabbed too, and he brushes by the Salvage on his way to pick it up.

Right. He should probably… at least say something.

Jean turns to the figure still half in his doorway. His back is stiff with formality and his hair probably still ruffled from his several-hour long nap, but the Salvage is watching him blankly.

“I am going to buy groceries and I will be back in a hour or two.”

“Are you walking there?” The Salvage asks.

He’s about to make a smart-mouthed reply, then suddenly remembers the check still stashed in his wallet. He’ll have to deposit it tomorrow, which means more alarms to make sure he actually wakes up in time for the tiny hours the bank keeps on Sundays, but the money is still as good as his.

“You know what? No. I’m not. I’m gonna take a taxi.” And he breaks into a grin - his first grin since seeing what’s left of his childhood best friend that morning - and fishes the check out of his wallet, striding over to the kitchen and clipping it to the smooth black surface with a magnet.

 

* * *

 

 When he unlocks the door, he’s greeted with an unusual sight - the bare back of a man as he sits in front of the couch, cross legged on the carpet but spine still stiff and upright. And it’s as Jean’s eyes take in the other side of the recycled-paper-bag brown skin that he almost drops his groceries from shock; but he doesn’t quite, because he’s made from stern stuff. Or, all right, he’s just too thrifty to forget that he’s holding a plastic bag filled with glass bottles in his left hand.

In either case, he sets the bags down slowly, kicking the door closed - it hits the frame with a loud whump, and the Salvage jumps. The muscles in what’s left of his back stand out in sharp relief under the tight skin, especially at the scars where flesh meets metal like lightning. He can see wires, maybe, gleam under ivory plastic plates that curve and try to hide the mechanics underneath, and his fear of what has become of Marco Bodt twists into dark, cautious curiosity.

“Jean?”

The Salvage’s body twist as he turns, still seated, to look at Jean over his shoulder with his human eye.

“You’re not wearing clothes,” the blond says in way of reply.

His inheritance frowns. “Oh,” and his cheek gets rather red as he stammers out an excuse, “s-sorry, I haven’t really had the opportunity to wash off or anything since I’ve been living in storage for the last few days, so I took advantage--”

“No, it’s fine,” and Jean bends down to gather up his groceries again and cart them to his kitchen. “Just… that’s some pretty detailed gear you’ve got. It doesn’t look like 30 percent though.”

A hybrid sigh, half human and half a mechanical wheeze like an old computer shutting down, is his answer to his unasked question. “They said I was just over, but who really knows what numbers they crunch for this. Sometimes they say it’s your overall mass, some say it’s how many of your organs are replaced or how much you depend on robotic parts just to breathe… It’s inconsistent, to say the least.”

Jean grunts in reply, half listening to the spiel as he sorts his groceries, putting the milk, eggs and beer in the fridge and cereal, bread, and other staple foods wherever else in his kitchen there’s room.

“Can I help?”

The Salvage is suddenly in the kitchen doorway, still shirtless, bending over with his mismatched palms planted on his thighs as he watches Jean work. The apartment’s owner starts a little at their proximity, but shrugs after a moment.

“I’m mostly done, so don’t worry about it. Thanks for the offer.”

And he’s not bothered, not even a little bit, as his inheritance watches him calmly from the doorway as Jean sits cross legged in front of the fridge, sorting leftovers and tossing a few things, regretfully, in the trash. When he finally stands, his legs a little stiff, the Salvage is still there, studying him - and when their eyes lock, he flashes a slightly lopsided smile restrained on his right side by the metal and plastic.

“So,” Jean starts, rubbing the back of his neck before shoving his hands into his pants pockets in a show of feigned nonchalance. “How much of you was…”

“Destroyed in the accident?” prompts the Salvage, all too calm for discussing his own death. Jean’s mind flashes back to that last, long day in high school, the image of blood on the pavement, and his throat tightens a bit.

“Yeah,” Jean replies, hoarsely.

The Salvage takes his left - his still human - hand and, starting at his right temple, begins to trace a path along the edges of his replaced parts.

“I was hit broadside, and my car flipped… four times I think. I don’t really remember, but they said most of my right side was crushed. I lost my eye,” and he circles the large, lit sphere that now sits in the same place, “and my jaw and cheekbone were badly broken. So they braced the right side of my jaw and teeth and replaced the parts of my skull that they couldn’t patch together.”

His fingers trail down to his neck and collarbone now, shaking a little but Jean can still feel his eye fixed on Jean’s face as he speaks slowly, calmly. “The panels on my neck are mostly there to protect the wires that connect my battery - my right eye - to my torso. They said they couldn’t even find my arm, and that I was lucky not to have suffocated by the time the ambulance got there since my ribcage was crushed.”

Jean can’t help but picture the scene, the body torn to pieces - metal and glass and a carmine stain. The Salvage’s breathing is a little uneven, his voice wavering once or twice, but when Jean tears his eyes away from the shifting mechanical parts and makes eye contact again, his expression is steady.

“They probably couldn’t have given me organ transplants even if I’d wanted them to, so… I’m lucky to be alive,” the Salvage finishes, but his smile is hollow.

“But are you?”

They both flinch a little at his words, and Jean mentally curses. “I mean… are you really lucky?” He’d not meant ‘lucky’ of course, he’d meant ‘alive’ but he didn’t mean to say either. Guess he’s still tactless as ever.

“Yes,” comes the soft reply. “I am.”

“Okay,” Jean answers tersely, looking anywhere but at the figure still standing in his doorway. “Um, if you want to help you could take the trash out. There’s a dumpster right below the fire escape, so I generally just toss it out the window. It’s cold, though, so you’d probably better put on... Some clothes or something.”

He lifts one shoulder in an awkward, abandoned halfway shrug and gestures to the window in what vaguely constituted as his dining room. The Salvage nods, then breaks out again into an uneven smile, this one seeming a little forced.

“Sure, no problem,” and he retreats to dig around in his suitcases. Jean heaves a huge sigh through his nose and leans against the doorway, watching him go. That was way, way more awkward than he wanted it to be, and he’s gonna have to be more tactful next time. Or just avoid the subject about Marc-- the Salvage’s past life or history from here on out. Yeah, that’s probably better. They’re not really the same person, anyway.

His face contorts itself into a grimace at this prospect, but he trusts that he’ll be able to skirt around the topic in the future. Thankfully, any further internal turmoil is interrupted by watching the Salvage. His inheritances fiddles with the window latch for a moment before opening it, then returns to the kitchen to step carefully around Jean and retrieve the trash bag. They don’t touch, don’t even come close, but Jean tenses up at the close proximity. It doesn’t last for long before the Salvage is returning to the window and poking his head out, peering down into the alleyway.

“I think there’s someone sleeping down there,” he comments worriedly, not bothering to turn around and catch Jean’s eye. Jean studies the robotic side casually, confident in the other’s blind spot. “In the dumpster, I mean.”

“Toss it anyway, I’m sure it’s fine.”

The Salvage hesitates, indecision or something similar probably crossing his expression - and it hurts for a moment because Jean can remember exactly what that expression would look like on Marco, as it was one he wore nearly any time Jean suggested something fun and/or stupid and dangerous - but he’s on the mechanical side, so all he can really confirm is a pause before the trash bag is carefully flung out the window. There’s the familiar sound of shattering glass and a an unexpected yelp of surprise, \ yet the Salvage’s cry sounds out as well.

“There was glass in there, Jean!” He turns this time, having to swivel his entire body to get Jean in his field of vision, then before the blond can reply he’s leaning back out the window and shouting down to the mysterious person below. “Sir, are you all right? I don’t think I hit him,” he adds as he pulls himself back in, then he’s out again like a twenty-second century cuckoo clock. Jean has to force himself not to laugh.

The eventual reply from the man below is an inarticulate garble that has the Salvage recoiling, then heading around the corner.

“What are you doing?” Jean follows him as the Salvage rushes to the bathroom, checking the cabinets instinctively. Of course there’s not much in the way of a first aid kid, just a box of fabric bandages and an expired tube of antibiotic cream, but his supplies are raided anyway.

The Salvage’s hands are surer than Jean expected them to be, but the robotic side is still slower than the other. “I’m gonna run down and make sure he’s okay, Jean. If he got hit with that glass, he could be seriously hurt!”

“If the dude was actually sleeping in the dumpster, I’m sure he’s aware of the risks,” Jean replies calmly, then suddenly he’s forced to block the Salvage in the bathroom. “Whoa there, you’re serious aren’t you?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He’s treated to a confused look, half a face of freckles and a limpid, glowing eye.

Jean shifts in the doorway, planting his feet. “Because if he wasn’t fine, he’d be a lot louder, and even then he still wouldn’t be my problem.”

“Maybe not, but he’s  _my_  problem. Let me past, Jean.”

The Salvage’s brown eye narrows as he glares at the man blocking his way, and it’s an expression that doesn’t fit the ones Jean remembers on that face; but it reminds him of the fine print of his inherited fortune.

_Don’t let anything happen to the Salvage, or you forfeit the inheritance._

“Do you even know what you look like right now?” Jean stalls, bracing his hands in the doorway.

“Angry, probably,” the Salvage retorts.

Jean gently grabs him by both shoulders and turns him to face the mirror.

“You look like a monster,” he hisses, and watches his own reflection over the Salvage’s shoulder as the other’s scowl wavers and breaks. It’s harsh, but it’s true - if his inheritance went out there with half his face mechanical and the other half angry, he’d likely cause more harm than help.

The brown eye closes, and the Salvage swallows. “Right.”

Guilt hits Jean again, and he rolls his eyes. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll go make sure he’s fine.”

“I’ll watch you from the window and hold you to that,” warns the other.

“Fine.”

The Salvage’s head turns to be a little closer to Jean’s, his lips turning up into a faint smirk. “I’ll lock you out if you lie, you know.”

“Oh, fuck you,” he spits back, but accepts the bandages and heads to the door to grab his coat. “You’re horrible, you know that? Worst fine print I’ve ever had to put up with.”

“I know,” calls back the Salvage as Jean shuts the door and heads back down the stairs.

 

* * *

 

As Jean predicted, the homeless man was uninjured - just startled out of a drunken sleep. Also as predicted, the Salvage’s glowing right eye gleamed overhead out the window distinctly in the dark, giving the blond a brief flicker of unease as he finished his cursory apology. Not because he really thought the Salvage would lock him out, but because it was a stark reminder of the Salvage’s status as a less than human entity. It stung, a fresh flicker of pain that’s becoming routine every time Jean thinks of the other half of his inheritance; but more than that, it made him scared.

Mostly because, he reasoned, if his Salvage was ever found and torn apart for parts, he’d lose his inheritance. But he was afraid that the real reason _why_ he cared was because this left over being, this half human, reminded him so much of Marco; it was all too easy to forget that he wasn’t and--

And maybe if he forgot, then the real Marco, the one who’d died, the one whose blood he’d seen on the pavement and whose funeral he’d attended… Maybe it’d cheapen his death somehow.

With these thoughts weighing on his mind, he only mutters a few paper thin, trite phrases when he returns to his apartment on how much a worrywart the Salvage was and how the man he’d not come close to hitting was fine, and heads to sleep again. Mostly because he can’t think of anything else to do.

When he wakes up, sweaty and uneasy around 3am, he heads to the kitchen for something to drink. On his way, he sees the Salvage lying on the couch and casting the room in a gentle, artificial blue glow. This reminds him that he forgot to get a cot, and he makes a mental note to just buy something online or have Armin drive him to pick something up from the furniture store. He kind of wants to be on his couch at the moment, to sit and drink beer and watch the news until he can sleep again, but…

He pulls a beer from out of the fridge and unscrews the lid - it hisses with pleasure as he closes the fridge and he takes a long drink. Bitter and cold in his mouth, sweet and warm in his stomach, he savors the sensation and stares at the vague shape that’s his check in the faintly blue gloom. How easily he’d been sold into this situation. How much he wishes he’d taken up the professor on his invitations to lunch in the past.

“Jean?” The Salvage’s voice breaks through his thoughts.

“I woke you up?” He’s a little disturbed that the Salvage is such a light sleeper, just like-- but he’s not.

If nothing else, it’s useful to have someone with the reflexes of a guard dog, even if they’re probably the most valuable thing in his apartment.

“A little. Is everything all right?” His voice is a sleepy mumble, and the lights on the fridge shift as he moves. Jean suddenly sees his own shadow cast in front of him and the concrete knowledge that there’s something behind him that’s not quite human makes his heartbeat spike with terror.

“Can you…” Jean swallows, steadies his voice. “Can you turn that damned light off or something?”

“Oh, sure,” and moments later the apartment is plunged into a more warm hued darkness of a city at night. Only then does Jean turn, slowly, to see the Salvage sitting up and watching him over the back of the couch, left hand clapped over his right eye and a faint reddish glow emanating through the skin. If anything it’s worse because the ones they feature in horror films are always like this; awake at times when they shouldn’t be and their false eyes bright like blood, hard like rubies, cold like murder.

“I’d turn if off if I could,” the Salvage, his Salvage now for better or worse, apologies, “but I, um, can’t. Well, I could unscrew it but I’d need to replace it with the other one because it’s like… a battery. For my arm and lung. And if I fell asleep with only one lung working, I’m not sure if I’d wake up again, so you can see why I wouldn’t… want to do that.”

Jean takes another long drink that ends up draining the bottle, closing his eyes as he tilts his head back and chugs, then he slinks back to his room without ever once looking at the figure on the couch. As soon as his bedroom door is shut, he relaxes slightly, straining his ears for the sound of movement - but the only change is the return of the faint blue light that seeps under his door.

It’s foolish, and the fear passes as soon as he rolls into bed, but he stays awake for another few hours anyway.

 


	5. Same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gratuitous movie references + the soup recipe can be found [here](http://allrecipes.com/recipe/creamy-corn-soup/detail.aspx) plus or minus like everything
> 
> also! there will not be an update on January 25th because I will be at Ohayocon! Cosplays pending (or at least the order of the cosplays pending). If you're attending and you read this and you find me i will probably just break down in the middle of the con and start crying hysterically with joy.

The last time Jean can remember coming home to the smell of food was when he’d dumped moldy leftovers into the trashcan and forgotten to take it out for almost a week. The leftovers had once been something resembling a Swiss steak, and by the time he’d aired the place out enough Jean wasn’t able to look at anything vaguely gravy-like for a month. So when he unlocks the door to his apartment and is greeted by the faint smell of corn, cream and herbs he freezes.

The thought actually crosses his mind, briefly, that someone would break into his apartment and cook - but now that’s  _absurd_ , and as his mind finally catches up with the real world he can hear footsteps in his kitchen, the clanking of dishes and a very occasional whir.

“Bodt?”

“Oh, Jean? You’re home from the bank,” and the Salvage comes to the doorway of the kitchen, his mechanical hand wrapped in a bright blue glove. “Hope you didn’t mind me cooking, I found some canned corn and some Mexican seasoning in the back of the pantry so I just kind of… got inspired.”

“I have a  _pantry_?”

He doesn’t remember ever buying Mexican seasoning or canned corn - he meets the Salvage in the kitchen, listening to the other explain more about the soup that was simmering and smelling sinfully delicious on the stove as Jean discreetly checks the labels on the cans in the trash.

“… kind of half invented a recipe from one I found online, I hope you didn’t mind that I touched your computer-- Jean?”

“Yeah?” He drops the can unobtrusively back into the wastebasket - or at least attempts to, as instead it hits the rim and bounces out with a loud metallic clatter. Jean winces.

“I checked,” his cook explains. “They’re not expired.”

“Ah.”

The Salvage looks at him curiously for a moment, then sighs and snatches the washcloth off the empty sink. The status of the sink does not go unnoticed, and Jean checks a cabinet to see it freshly stocked with dishes.

“You cleaned, too?” There hadn’t been much to do, but cooking generally involved a lot of mess and Jean had just been eating frozen foods and drinking beer long before he’d picked up the Salvage.

“Mh-hmm. Just the dishes and countertops, nothing too invasive. I’ve got nothing better to do,” he relates calmly, like he’s been living there for ages and not hardly 24 hours.

Jean inspects the Salvage’s work as, behind him, the can is picked back up and the leftover corn juice is wiped off the floor. He really can’t protest, but having the Salvage working almost as a live in maid is a little… odd.

“Looks nice. Maybe I’ll get you a uniform or something, make the position official and stuff.”

“I-- I don’t know how I’d look in a miniskirt and garters, Jean,” the Salvage admits, hesitatingly, as he stands and returns to lavish the soup with attention - the blush that stains his ear is so ridiculously Marco that here, from this angle, Jean can almost pretend--

The thought makes him melancholy for a moment, and he doesn’t laugh at the joke like he otherwise would have. “I was thinking more like… a janitor’s jumpsuit or something, not a little _Meido_ outfit. Geez, man, get your head out of the gutter.”

They share smiles, but as soon as the Salvage turns to face Jean fully the moment is gone. He didn’t mean to show it, but his face must have fallen at the sight, and in response the Salvage’s left eye loses some of its liveliness.

Jean tries a new subject. “So, what’s for dinner? Are you even going to eat it?”

The Salvage gives him the smallest of frowns, lips pressed into a thin line, then he turns back to the pot, kills the heat on on the stove and heaves a sigh into the soup for extra seasoning. “It’s a corn chowder, and… yeah? I’m still human, Jean, even if I’m not on paper. I need to eat and sleep like everyone else.”

“Yeah, I know. I was just trying to… make a joke,” he lies, a little too easily.

“Oh.”

Jean shrugs. “It’s not really funny, I guess.”

“No,” the Salvage remarks softly. “No, it isn’t. Still, I’m sorry for taking it so seriously,” he finishes, brightening up a bit as he glides around Jean to reach up into the cabinets with his left hand. Bowls are retrieved with only a minor hesitation, and as Jean steps out of the way to let this strange, inherited ghost take control of his kitchen, he brings up another topic.

“So, how hard is it to see with only one eye? Doesn’t it mess with your depth perception or something?”

“A little,” the Salvage admits with a whirring shrug of both shoulders. “I got used to it after a while, I just have to take things a little slower than most. I had a cane for a while - you know, the ones for the visually impaired?”

Jean gives the Salvage a dry look from sleep deprived amber eyes, crossing his legs and leaning in the doorway. “I am aware of these things, yes.”

The Salvage smiles in a private sort of way, and Jean almost feels like he’s intruding when he catches the other’s eye again. “It helped to sort of feel how far away things were, but like I said. I got used to it. Like I’ve gotten used to… well, a lot of things.”

Then Jean was being handed a bowl of hot soup, and any follow up questions on the matter were dissolved.

“Oh my god,” he wheezes as he puffs air onto another spoonful of creamy sweet-spicy goodness, “you should get inspired more often. I’ll even buy you the slutty dress and matching panties if you can keep cooking like this.”

His cook laughs, spooning a taste for himself from a smaller dish, and they stand in the kitchen like that in a quiet sort of harmony for a while. Jean feels himself warming up to this new occupant, and it’s a good feeling. It’s gentle and maybe still a little new, but it’s not turning out nearly as bad as he’d been afraid it might. Sudden occasional flashbacks aside, of course.

“So, was your trip productive?”

“Yeah,” Jean coughs, a little caught off guard - he has to take a moment to catch back up to the present. “I, uh, deposited the money, so no takesies backsies now.”

“Takesies backsies?”

“Yes, takesies backsies,” he defends his childish turn of phrase as he tilts the bowl up to his lips, draining the rest from the bottom and making a grunt of pleasure as he swallowed. “You’re mine now, and I won’t let anyone else have you.”

When he finally looks up from his meal, the Salvage has his back to him, busy with something in the cabinets. “Hey, you need a hand?” Jean offers, but the Salvage jerks awkwardly away from his reach.

“N-no, I’m fine, just wanted to, you know… make sure I put all the dishes away in the right places?”

“Oh. A’ight then,” and Jean reaches around the Salvage to grab another bowl of soup, “I’m just gonna grab some more, uh, more ambrosia here. Doctor Bodt teach you how to cook?”

“Yeah,” the Salvage replies when Jean withdraws to the doorway again, like he’d been holding his breath. “I didn’t have much else to do whenever he was at work since I couldn’t really… leave.”

“Not even to visit friends?” Jean’s eyebrows furrow and he tears his attention away from the soup to fix the Salvage with a serious expression. Yeah, he left and this wasn’t entirely Marco - God only knew how high of a percentage he was Marco - but they’d had other friends back home.

“We moved. Right after the accident and… right after you did. I looked worse than I do now and I didn’t think--“ The Salvage pauses. “Well, I know that it’s pretty dangerous for Salvages to be out by themselves. Plus, I was kind of a prototype and they didn’t want anyone to know that I existed until they were sure that… well, that I wouldn’t fall apart.”

Jean grunts, sympathetically he hopes, into his bowl as he guzzles the last drops down.

“Sounds kind of shitty.”

“It was, but it could always be worse.”

Jean doesn’t feel like refuting this, so instead he exits to the living room, carefully moving the blanket the Salvage slept under to make room from him to sit at the foot of the couch. “Wanna watch the news with me?”

“Sure, just let me put the leftovers away,” comes his answer from the kitchen, where dishes clatter gently out of his sight as Jean fishes around in between the cushions for the remote. Yeah. He could get used to this.

Not like he has a choice, anyway.

 

* * *

 

After a couple hours of sitcoms and news and commercials that fail to motivate Jean to buy anything, the two unlikely housemates had grown more comfortable around each other. The Salvage, despite there being a free space beside Jean on the couch, was seated on the floor beside Jean; he can feel the faint body heat radiating from the Salvage’s intact side, and even though he’s fighting to control the sensation he can feel his throat getting tight.

But it’s not Marco, not really, even though he thinks he wants to pretend it is. The apology he never gave still burns in the back of his mind, sometimes at night with the bitter aftertaste of hours ago coffee, sometimes in the morning when he sees the tearstains on his pillow and wakes up empty and melancholy. He takes another drink of beer, and when he finishes swallowing his throat feels looser and he sinks deeper into the couch cushions.

Suddenly, the slim phone in his pocket buzzes, and Jean jolts both out of his thoughts and a little closer to the warm, augmented body at his feet. He fumbles in his pocket for a moment, and then settles the headset on his ear as he hauls himself off the couch, answering the call with a finger tap on the outer curve of the headset. “Yeah, this is Jean.”

_“Hey, it’s Armin. Are we still up for movie night?”_

Shit. Jean shoots the Salvage a concerned look. He’d almost forgotten - well, a lot of things actually. Mostly, however, that this was the one weekend a month he designated as ‘Get Out of The House and Do Something’ day. But now…

“Uh…”

The Salvage stirs from his place on the floor leaning up against the couch. Jean’s already in the process of starting to pick up things from their casual TV dinner as he talks, and he waves the Salvage back into his seat.

“Yeah, it’s fine. We’ve got some catching up to do anyway - long story short, I inherited a Salvage, so make sure to bring over something… appropriate. Oi, Bodt,” and he raises his eyes from the floor only to discover that he’s had the Salvage’s attention the whole time. His gaze meets the uneven brown stare before, inevitably, glancing over to the glowing blue sphere on the other side of his face. “Are there any movies you don’t want to watch?”

“I-- well, I don’t really like gorey or slasher movies.”

“Aight,” and he gives Armin the orders, “just don’t bring over something really messy, yeah?”

There’s a sigh on the other side of the line, and if he switched to video he knew he’ll see Armin looking disgruntled.

_“Duly noted. I expect the full story when I get there, all right?”_

“Yeah, yeah…”

Jean taps the headset again to end the call and pockets the device again as he settles back down on the couch. His leg brushes the Salvage’s shoulder, and it feels so warm and real that…It’s just sad. He’s sad. Pathetic loser, it’s-- he’s not even the same person. Better to ignore that side of the other’s face and that side of his brain that keeps dwelling on how many people he misses.

“I’ve got a friend coming over in a bit, just a heads up,” Jean informs him in a cavalier sort of tone. “You’re welcome to join us in watching the movie, by the way.”

What he can see of the Salvage’s face is pulled up in a gentle smile. “Good to know, but I’ll probably just chill in your room for a bit, if it’s cool with you.”

“Sure.”

And if that smile looks a little too fake, well, then, so’s almost half his body. Jean takes another drink of beer and crosses his legs, moving them so he can’t feel that treacherous body heat any longer.

 

* * *

 

Armin doesn’t get more than a step in the door before his eyes lock with the Salvage’s, and he drops his grocery bags to the floor with a horrific clatter of glass and plastic. Jean lunges for the bags as Armin lunges forward, and they narrowly avoid running slap bang into each other, comedy style.

“Oh my god,” the natural blond wheezes as he throws his arms around the Salvage’s shoulders, “Jean, it’s… It’s  _Marco_ , Jean. Why didn’t you say something?”

Jean picks up the bottles and avoids both eye contact and the question, checking to make sure nothing’s broken. “Geez, Armin, way to almost break the Blu Rays. How wasteful.”

He feels Armin’s blue eyes on him as he retreats to the kitchen, his default hiding place, but suddenly the memory of the Salvage cooking not four hours ago springs to the forefront of his mind, and he wants to run further away. But instead he just bustles loudly around in the kitchen, putting the sodas Armin brought - the little blond doctor hates the taste of alcohol and harps on Jean for drinking so much and so often, even though there’s no way he knows the true volume of liquor that passes through Jean’s body - into the fridge. It accomplishes nothing, not even stopping him from hearing the loud reunion going on outside.

After a few minutes, however, he can’t resist and despite his own defensive anger - it’s not Marco, how _dare_ Armin say that this patchwork hybrid is Marco - he peers around the corner to watch them talk.

He’s not really paying attention to the words, but the way the Salvage’s face lights up is painful to see, since the whole time they’d been together he’d not seen something close to that reaction. It makes him almost jealous, but…

Leaning in the doorway, he crosses his arms and watches Armin and the Salvage dialogue, and his ears only catch on complicated medical phrases. But the Salvage keeps-- he keeps glancing up at Jean with this wistful sort of look, like he wants Jean to be where Armin is, like there’s something Jean has that the Salvage needs.

After another hug, Armin stands and heads for the kitchen, with a  _”Let me grab the movies, Marco,”_  tossed over his shoulder - but as soon as he’s in the room with Jean and out of the Salvage’s sight , his blue eyes go cold and stern.

Jean can feel a massive sigh and eye roll building up in his system before he even speaks, but Armin beats him to the punch.

“So why don’t you call him Marco?” he asks in a low, calm tone, just like how he’d talk to an angry, irrational parent at his work, and Jean huffs. Armin picks up the movies he’d brought, still in their thin plastic bags and completely intact despite their brief collision with the floor moments before.

“Because he’s not. He’s a Salvage--”

“That’s a bigoted thought--”

“It is  _not_ , even _he_  admits he’s a Salvage--”

“Since when does that make him _not Marco_?”

The question makes Jean pause, hold the breath he’d taken in for his resort and hesitate. “Because Marco is dead. I know, I… I saw his blood. I went to his memorial service, Armin. You did too.” His own words are softer, more pained than he wanted to admit and he can feel Armin analyzing his emotions in the brief silence, as the TV continues to murmur in the background.

“I can’t tell you anything, Jean,” the pediatrician states after a while. “You’re the kind of guy who has to learn everything on his own, and usually the hard way. But if nothing else, please at least understand that just a few days ago, that… Salvage lost the only caretaker he’d had for almost ten years. Do you think he was even allowed to attend Maes’ funeral?”

Jean can’t think up a reply because they both know the answer to Armin’s question, and he wishes he had a fresh beer in his hand. Armin steps around him and retrieves three bottles of soda from the fridge, nudging Jean out back to the living room where the Salvage is seated stiffly in the middle of the couch.

“Sorry about that, Marco,” and Armin suddenly presses the cold surface of the pop bottle against Jean’s skin, making him yelp in cold and shock. “But here’s the Blu-rays. You wanna pick one?”

The Salvage hesitates, even when the pediatrician settles himself down on the couch beside him, on his mechanical side. “Well, they’re your movies…”

“I’ve seen them all,” Armin soothes, and Jean sinks into his place on the Salvage’s other side, acutely aware of his own silence.

“It’s Jean’s TV and player though.”

“Go ahead and pick, Bodt,” he insists, somewhat hollowly, as he eyes the pop bottles and starts to reach for the beer he’d had earlier, still sitting on the little wooden stool that served as a coffee table. Armin slaps his hand away when he’s half there, and he snorts and glares at the blond while the Salvage flips through the stack of movies.

“How about this one?”

“ _Pacific Rim?_ ” Jean questions, leaning forward a bit to catch a glimpse of the movie cover. “Yeah, I haven’t seen that one in a while. I was just a kid when it came out, you know?”

“It’d be just like old times, right, Jean?” Armin’s glance is meaningful, and the other blond glances away uncomfortably. The Salvage answers for him, though.

“Well, minus Connie and Sasha, to name a few people.”

Jean’s eyes flicker back up to the side of the brunet’s face, slightly surprised that… “You remember? The first time we watched it?”

“Yeah, I think half the elementary school went to that tiny little theatre. You, me, Connie, Sasha, Eren, Mikasa and you of course, Armin,” and the Salvage flashes another genuine, lopsided grin. “Annie, Reiner and Bertholt all went too, but I think they snuck in late and for free…”

This time, he doesn’t have to see Armin’s face to know that he’s being given the ‘I Told You So’ look from those blue, calculating eyes, and he heaves himself off the couch.

“Give it here, then, and we’ll watch this one.”

He still can’t quite meet the Salvage’s gaze - or Armin’s, to be completely honest - but he takes the disc gently and slides it into the player. His spot on the couch reclaimed, and his leg brushing the Salvage’s every once in a while, Jean does his best to enjoy the movie.

And he does. It’s impossible to not watch a movie about human-piloted mechs the size of small cities engaged in hand to hand combat with equally massive aliens and not get pumped, but he also remembers flashes of watching it in theatres.

Here, where the main character loses his brother and feels him die through the mental connection, Marco’s hand had grabbed his and squeezed gently, feeling the bond of brotherhood and the pain of losing the other. Here, as the female lead speaks her native language, he remembers glancing sideways at the beautiful Mikasa to see her face light up as she recognized her mother tongue being spoken for perhaps the first time since her parent’s death. Here, as the other pilots had died one by one he remembers yelling alongside Eren for the main character to avenge them all - and they’d almost gotten kicked out by that stunt.

It only takes him a quick glance to the side to see that the Salvage - that this being, this half-Marco - remembers it all too. And when the two leads are reunited after their mission in the penultimate scene and Armin immediately starts in the discussion on their favorite scenes, Jean wants to join in this time.

He’s still not sure if it’s actually Marco, even less sure that he wants it to be Marco, but he does like the Salvage. Yet he’s still a coward and the best he can manage is a laugh and an awkward ruffle of the Salvage’s hair as he heads to the bathroom.

When he comes back, Armin’s getting his coat on and packing up his movies.

“Leaving so soon?”

“It’s almost ten at night, and I have to get up at five in the morning tomorrow.” Armin looks at him shrewdly. “Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

“Oh. Yeah, I do.” Jean grits his teeth, irritated - if he’s serious about his job change, he’s got to write up the official letter of resignation tonight. At least he’s still sober enough to be able to type up something halfway coherent. The pediatrician doesn’t react to his strangely worded admission, and instead turns to give the Salvage another gentle smile.

“It’s so good to see you again, Marco. Let me know if Jean ever feels kind enough to share you with everyone else - I’m sure Eren and Mikasa would love to hear about you. I assume they don’t know?”

“I haven’t told them anything,” Jean supplies, still trying to participate in a dialogue he’s felt excluded from all evening. “Should I… leave that to you? We could all get together in a few weeks or whenever they’re in town next.”

“I can orchestrate things, but… Marco?”

The Salvage seems pleased to be asked for his opinion, though still a little sheepish. “I’d like to see everyone, but would they want to see me like this?”

“More than you’d know,” Armin replies with a grim sort of look in Jean’s direction - he throws up his eyebrows in defense, daring the other blond to call him out on anything. But the doctor just finishes buttoning up his coat and lets himself out the door.

“See you guys around!”

The Salvage waves goodbye, the stiff movements of his robotic arm accompanied by a faint whirring noise and Jean waits until the door shuts to speak.

“Hey, Bodt.”

Jean approaches the brunet carefully, making sure to come up on his intact side and meeting that calm deep brown gaze with his own less confident amber one.

“Yes?”

“I-- well, I don’t think I said this before but. I’m sorry. About, you know. Doctor Bodt’s death.”

The Salvage’s face visibly falls, and that was the opposite kind of

expression he wanted the other to wear because of him. Yeah, maybe the circumstances kind of necessitated a sorrowful expression, but it doesn’t make him feel like any less of an asshole for bringing it up.

His inheritance mutters a gentle reply at the carpet. “Thank you, Jean.”

“He was a… a really good guy, and I’m sorry that I couldn’t make it to his funeral.”

“Me too. I’m sorry we-- we couldn’t make it to your parents’ either. Dad didn’t hear about it until it was too late to get there on time, and…”

The Salvage looks away, quickly when compared to his otherwise generally slow and deliberate movements, but Jean can still guess that there are tears starting to pool in that one brown eye. Damn it all, he can’t do this. Why did Maes Bodt choose him, of all people, to inherit someone so… so broken? He’s a mechanic, not a psychiatrist, and it’s starting to look more and more like this Salvage needs hugs more than he needs any kind of tune ups.

And Jean is very, very bad at hugs.

“So, you didn’t… go to Maes’ funeral?”

“How could I have gone? They - the lawyers, the rest of the family on Gracia’s side, they all locked me into storage almost as soon as he died. Their loss, though. Dad spited them all with that will… and I’m just thankful that Mrs. Brzenska stood her ground so well.”

Jean wants to reply to that, but he’s got nothing to say, so instead he just mutters “fuck” under his breath before slinking off to his bedroom. “I’ve got work in the morning so… good night, I guess. I’ll order you a bed from Ikea or something tomorrow, if you’d like, but we’d have to share the bedroom.”

“That’s fine with me.” The Salvage swipes the back of his hand across his face, but only meets Jean’s eyes for a moment when he glances up. “Good night, Jean.”

“Night, Bodt,” he replies, closing the door behind him with a very gentle click and settling down at the computer. But he doesn’t really get to work for an hour or so, busy doing offhanded research on beds, how to write a resignation letter and finally, inevitably, Salvages.

_“The act of replacing damaged or missing organs with robotic parts began in the year 2023[1], championed by various prosthetic companies such as Garrison[2] and medical research corporations such as Kingsguard, who had been well known for making great leaps in the fields of chemotherapy, cryogenics, and other less mainstream practices[3]. Several researchers from Kingsguard broke off from the company and started their own robotic prosthetic company named JaegerCorp[4] which is believed to have created some of the very first Salvages in the year 2019, four years before the practice became well known[citation needed]._

_Parallel to the development of Salvages is the practice called Augmenting, where replacements are made under the skin and with such a degree of finesse that many of the uncanny side effects of Salvaging are negated[5]. However, as this process is considerably more expensive and not covered by any kind of medical insurance[6], it is rarely implemented and mostly considered to be a branch of plastic surgery._

_In current times, the act of Salvaging cancer patients, car accident victims, and other cases of sudden traumatic loss of organs or body parts has fallen out of popularity. Various campaigns are being made to encourage people to volunteer[7] to be Salvaged in order to assist the research with the hopes of overcoming many of the aesthetic obstacles, but since the dissolving of JaegerCorp[8] in 2027, development has slowed to a near crawl[9].”_

 

The rest of the articles he finds varies from terrified hysteria - “Real Life Horror Films - Salvages In Your Neighborhood?” - to angry ranting - “Anti-Salvage Propaganda Is Less Human Than Its Targets” - to news articles on stolen Salvages found later in alleys or ditches, stripped for parts and their flesh left to rot. He quits searching after that and goes to bed with his head heavy with thoughts and his dreams stained with carmine.


	6. Heavy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is probably like the second mood-whiplashy-est chapter in the while damn story im sorry see me after class for free neck braces
> 
> and hey look this chapter contains the scene that [this](http://lostlegendaerie.tumblr.com/post/68321404390/three-days-left-so-heres-a-preview-of-one-of-the) shit came from whoops never finished that damn sketch oh well
> 
> EDIT: jean's speech to hannes is an abridged quote from [this video](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LmzKKK8HLqw), which by the time of this writing has become ingrained in the public knowledge. Game Grumps is and should be a universal constant.

Verman doesn’t exactly take the resignation well.

Not that Jean had expected him too, not really, but he hadn’t expected his soon to be ex-boss to actually follow him back along the tracks as he checked every last bolt with a wave of his wand. It’s much faster work than following the machine, since the holes are already drilled and the bolts in place, but it’s stressful as hell to have someone so honestly dislikable watch him. By the time he’s finished, he wants a beer and probably a few shots of whiskey more than he wants anything else.

He kicks the door to his apartment closed, sighing loudly; the Salvage looks up from his spot on the couch, cardboard box on his lap and a worried expression on half of his face.

“What’s up?”

“Work sucks dicks. Work can suck  _my_  dick. I need a beer.”

Jean heads for the kitchen and yanks the fridge open, but the other’s voice gives him pause.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He pauses, beer in hand and eyeing the whiskey, then forgoes the latter in favor of heading to the couch. “Yeah. Sure. I guess. What’cha got there?”

“The rest of the stuff from storage,” the Salvage explains. “Mostly clothes and things. I took the liberty of having them mailed here - free, thankfully.”

As he watches, the Salvage unpacks an old picture frame of a woman with short hazelnut-colored hair and a younger Maes - Jean takes a guess.

“Your mom, right?”

“Gracia.” He smiles gently. “I’ve got her facial structure and that’s about it. Dad never seemed disappointed I didn’t look more like her, but I kind of feel guilty.”

Jean replies without thinking, beer untouched as he clinks the bottle against his knee. “That’s a stupid thought.”

The Salvage sets the picture frame to one side, pulling out a sweatshirt next. “Yeah, it probably is. So,” and his tone switches to amused, teasing, “how was your day?”

“Other than sucking assorted dicks? All right. I’m about a third of the way caught up with the back log of work he wants me to do - tightening bolts on the railway. Like, okay,” and he sets the unopened beer down to gesture. “So I usually spend my time walking behind this machine that drills holes in the steel and concrete and then spins bolts into them - to secure the rails, right?”

The Salvage continues his work, watching Jean out of the corner of his eye with a faint smile. “Mm-hmm.”

“And I have to check them with this-- this little magnetic wand thing, no big deal. It’s basically just a job where I make sure the machine does what its supposed to and doesn’t run out of fuel or shit. Anyway though, last week apparently a bunch of my bolts were loose?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Way down the line. Not all of them, but a bunch, and I’m like.” He snorts, exasperated. “It may not be the best job but I’m a goddamn professional, okay? I check my shit. So I tell that to Verman--”

“Vermin?”

“No, Verman - it’s his name, I promise, like his on-paper name - and he just, fucking blows up in my face.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Talking shit about me. So I… pretty much resigned. Dramatically.”

This makes the Salvage pause. “… You quit your job?”

“Yeah, I know, dumb ass move.” Jean moves to reclaim his beer, but the other’s reply stops him.

“I wish I could have a job.”

He scowls as the Salvage continues unpacking, a tranquil and resigned sort of expression on his face. “You can’t?”

“Salvages can’t really hold jobs, Jean. Well, I mean,” he hesitates, “some can. But it’s more like slavery than anything else. No need to pay minimum wage to something that’s not human, right?”

Jean mulls over that thought for a moment, then glances at the beer that’s slowly growing warm and heaves a sigh as he pulls himself off the couch.

“It’s probably just me, but I think it’d be better to have no job than to have one where you’re not treated like a person. I’m takin’ a shower, Bodt.”

The Salvage waves his robotic hand in acknowledgement, and Jean replaces the beer in the fridge to chill once more before heading to the bathroom.

It’s not like it’s a dirty job, but it feels nice to blast his skin with hot water as he rushes through the motions of cleaning, more from habit than any sort of desire to leave the sanctuary at all. He’d gotten a cluster of texts from his friends asking about ‘Marco.’ All of which he replied with a copy-paste of the bare facts and to a few of them more choice language about where to place their nosy inquiries. Connie and Sasha were desperate for pictures, horror movie junkies the pair of them, but Eren was actually the hardest to deal with. He’d left several screaming voicemails about percentages and some other bullshit Jean couldn’t make out, and he’d deleted them all after the first few moments.

He almost envies Eren’s passion, but caring that much about  _anything_  is just beyond him. Turning off the water with a deft movement of his wrist, Jean steps out of the shower and back into the present, drying off just enough to justify retreating to his room to get dressed for bed.

The Salvage is already there, wrestling with boxes to slide under his newly-built bed. He glances up at Jean, not breaking from his crouch as he pivots to catch sight of the blond. Skeptic amber eyes meet the lone chocolate one, eyebrows arching above the former’s gaze.

He’s already framing some kind of crack about enjoying the view, but thinks better of it. Especially as his thoughts jump to wondering how functional that aspect of the Salvage’s body is. Jean swallows, grimaces, as he roots through his drawers for boxers and a big comfy sleeping shirt.

“Your ears are kind of red, Jean,” the room’s other occupant comments.

“No they’re not,” he snaps, struggling into underwear as he drops his towel and resents his life situation. “You should get that eye checked or something.”

The Salvage doesn’t say anything and keeps sorting while Jean finishes dressing and escapes back to the kitchen. But he still gets the distinct impression that someone, somewhere, is laughing at him.

 

* * *

 

It’s his official last day of work; two weeks after he’d turned in the paperwork to Verman and watched the brunet man go pale then red then return to his typical sallow complexion and spit him outside the Nest to get back to work fixing the bolts further down the line that had been loose. One week after he’d finished spinning in the back bolts by hand as he watched his coworkers advance further and further down the line without him. Two days since his only friend Hannes had been elected to take Jean’s place and he’d started training him for the relatively simple, relatively brainless task of making sure the machine didn’t try to insert a bolt upside down or without drilling the hole for it first.

It’s a Monday and he’s never felt more free.

Jean whistles a little, probably tunelessly as he can’t hear anything above the sound of the equipment as he runs the machine alone, with Hannes checking the bolts with the new wand. Apparently - allegedly - the one he’d thrown at his bosses’ feet had broken, and the rather expensive replacement had come out of his paycheck. It was still worth it in Jean’s opinion, and he was glad to not have to work with an awful boss.

A hand taps him on the shoulder, and he turns around to give Hannes a quizzical stare. The older man gestures for Jean to turn off the machine, and he sets the machine to idle as he pulls out one of his earplugs.

“What?”

“It’s quitting time - didn’t you get the message?”

Jean slides his eyes over to the display of the machine - no messages had shown up. Typical, spiteful Verman. He snorts and starts the shutdown process for the machine, his gloved fingers lingering a little on the panel with affection. He’d been working with this particular one since the start of the line all the way on the other side of the city, several months ago, and had held down his construction job in the company for almost two years.

“I didn’t. How’d you tell?”

“Unlike you, I make friends with the other temps and one of them told me.” Hannes gives him a grin and they head over to the Nest together. Jean makes deliberate eye contact with Verman as he clocks out for the last time before exiting, his head held high.

His friend caught up with him by the time they reached the stairs, and he walks close to Jean as they descend, his face looking a little strained as the structure creaks under their movements.

“So… why’d you quit? Giving up’s not like you, you know.”

“I got an inheritance from an old family friend,” Jean elaborates. “Five hundred thousand bucks, but I gotta take care of the old man’s Salvage. It’s worth it to me, plus I think I’d end up in jail if I worked for that bastard any longer. That man couldn’t engineer his way out of a plastic bag, he’d just get caught up in the cellophane, choke and die - and it’d somehow be everyone else’s fault.”

“Maybe if you’d stuck around for a few more years, that could have been you giving orders.” Hannes suggests carefully, but adds, “Still. Nice job on the inheritance. But why the Salvage? I didn’t think too many of those still, you know…”

“What, existed?”

“No, I mean… Not a lot of people care about them, you know? Real, intact people at least. Normal people. They look kind of unnatural, especially the ones who try to hide their replaced parts, so people panic sometimes. Does yours freak you out any?”

“Not really. Well, not in the way you’d expect.” Jean hesitates, feeling a little uncomfortable about the subject now. “Because it’s one of my closest friends from high school. Sort of.”

“Sort of? What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s - he’s - the Salvage has the friend’s body - Marco’s body, I mean- but he’s over thirty percent Salvaged so he’s not… not really human?”

Hannes nods, scratching his chin and the faint perpetual stubble he wore there. “I see. Sounds like a tricky spot to be in. Is it worth it?”

“I think so. Besides, it kind of has to be, you know? If I lose the Salvage now, I lose all the money and I’m shit out of luck.”

“You know you’re a damn fool for quitting, right?”

Jean stops on the stairs to give Hannes a full measure of his golden glare. “Hannes, a man’s gotta draw the line somewhere! A man’s gotta draw the fucking line in the sand! A man’s gotta make a statement!”

He’s laughing as he shouts now, letting himself get hustled along by Hannes who’s smiling at the adage as well.

“A man’s gotta look inside himself and say, ‘What am I willing to put up with today?’ Not fucking this!”

“You’re still a damn fool, Kirstein,” the older man laughs when they finally reach the ground. “And I’m gonna miss working with you.”

“Take care and give ‘em hell, Hannes,” and he shakes the offered hand in farewell as they part, each heading their separate ways home.

Jean takes his usual route, past the two or three clothing stores with slender achromatic mannequins festooned in the latest fashions facelessly staring at the street; past an austere coffee house and a cell phone store and a local bakery that he often hits up on Monday morning for yesterday’s bagels. It’s at the last of these places that he pauses outside, looking in through the glass display and considering, carefully, if he should buy something special to eat. He wants to reward himself, counter-intuitively, for his accomplishments this week when he should be pinching pennies.

“Hungry, Jean?”

He jumps, to his chagrin, at the sudden and unexpected voice at his ear, then turns to come face to face with a lady with a Glasgow smile. Her green eyes are dark but distinct, an unnatural shade almost certainly the work of contacts, and he scowls as he tries to place her - then as she raises a ashen blonde eyebrow, the memories click into place.

“You’re that girl from Kingsguard, aren’t you?”

“Glad you remember at least that much - and yet, hmm, that’s not my name.” She places a white gloved finger on her lips. “Do you happen to remember that?”

“I’m tempted to say Bitch, but I don’t think that was quite it. Might be close enough,” he tests her patience as he tries to actually recall the name from the business card. Thankfully, her reaction is to giggle.

“Gee, never heard that one before,” she comments in such a way that her honeyed words drip sarcasm, then offers her hand. “The name’s Lilith Hitch - but I prefer to go by Hitch. Nice to meet you again, Jean Kirstein.”

He accepts her hand. “And you, Hitch.”

“Are you free at the moment, Jean? I would love to have something to eat here, and good food always tastes better with good company.” Her invitation comes with a smile that still seems unsettlingly snakelike and wide, but he pauses. He may not like her, not exactly - but she knows about Salvages enough to work for Kingsguard. Maybe he can learn something about his Salvage if he eats with her.

His expression must have given away his indecision - because Hitch gives him a impudent pout.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’ll even pay for your food if that’s your concern.”

“That’s not it,” Jean starts, but she’s already grabbing his hand and dragging him into the bakery, ashen blonde hair bright against her dark coat and white scarf. He doesn’t resist too much, more from his own vague masochistic curiosity than any sense of politeness, and he’s enveloped in the heady smell of baking bread and coffee. Jaunty fiddle music is humming out from the speakers just over the murmur of conversation as couples, families and the occasional lone businessman sit at tables or wait in line for their orders. It’s almost certainly the rush and he’d rather go home, but Hitch’s hand is still clamped around his, small and warm but certainly strong.

Thankfully, the bakery is run smoothly enough that by the time Hitch’s finished with her order he’d decided.

“Hey, can I get an Asiago cheese bagel, toasted with butter, and… a cup of southwestern chicken soup?”

“We’re together, by the way,” Hitch chimes in, and he cuts her off much to the poor cashier’s confusion.

“No, we’re not--”

“Yes,” and she pulls out a dark green credit card bearing the Kingsguard logo, giving him a meaningful glare that brooks no argument and he wisely shuts his mouth. The cashier swipes the card and gives Hitch the receipt, then as they hunt for a table Jean comes in close to mutter a question in her ear.

“Did you just pay for coffee and a muffin with company money?”

“It’s a business expense, darling. Or did you think I’m really here just for _pleasure_?” And the way she says it, carefully enunciated acid, makes him shift uncomfortably. Talking with her is like trying to run on ice, no traction and a constant fear of falling on your ass.

So he matches her wit. “You’ve got quite a way with men, you know that?”

Hitch sets her elbows on the table, then laces her fingers together and cradles her chin with them as she stares at him with rich emerald eyes. He mimics her posture smoothly, meeting her gaze evenly. Once, twice, she blinks with massively long curling lashes that catch his attention a bit too much. When one of the employee bring them their food she sits up again and begins to delicately bite off the top of her muffin.

Jean shifts in his seat, turning his attention to his own food and savoring the first hot, buttery bite in silence. After a couple more moments as they take the edges of their hunger, Hitch speaks again.

“All right. I’ll spill. I’m here on more of a… personal venture than a business one.”

“Can’t resist me after all?” He can’t resist the jibe.

She takes a sip of her coffee delicately, licking some of the foam off her lips with finesse, then resumes her thought and her muffin consumption. “You’ve heard of JaegerCorp, I assume?”

“To a degree,” he replies evasively. “but fill me in.”

“Ten or fifteen years ago, Kingsguard lost some of their best scientists, doctors and engineers. The deserters all banded together to steal Kingsguard’s ideas and make their own robotic prosthetic company. They were widely successful for several years, and we - and by that of course I mean my company, this was all before my time - were in steep competition with them.”

“And by competition you mean…?”

“They slaughtered Kingsguard. Financially.” Her next bite is a little more vicious and puts an abrupt stop towards any slow feelings of sexual tension he’d been feeling from her. “And then a few years ago they just… shut down. Everyone quit and most of them vanished off the face of the earth. By now we’ve rehired a couple of the old members, but for the most part everything is gone. Kingsguard has had to make its way alone - but that’s where you come in.”

He snorts and takes another bite of soup. “I’ve got a bachelor’s in mechanical engineering and I’ve been working construction and other odd jobs since college. Not exactly the kind of guy your company would be interested in.”

“Because we - and I mean I myself,” she says this with a cold smile, “have gotten a little desperate. I’ve been doing some investigation into the private lives of those involved, and I found you. Didn’t you go to school with two boys named Marco Bodt and Eren Jaeger?”

He feels his food suddenly grow cold and uncomfortable in his stomach as his body fights not to react in alarm. “If you’re as good as an investigator as you sound, then you should already know the answer to that.”

Hitch chuckles. “What a clever boy. Pity I left my gold stars at home. You certainly deserve one right about now.”

“I’m sure you can find other ways to reward me if you feel like it,” he comments casually, avoiding eye contact as he finishes the last bite of his bagel. “Like by getting to the point?”

“All right. I need to find either of these two men or their fathers.”

Jean fights to keep a straight face as he takes another spoonful of soup. He didn’t want to hear either of those names ever again - not from a mouth like hers, at least. Eren’s father had been a distant asshole on the best of days and he’d abandoned his son just a few years ago; a son who had already lost his mother years before. And as for Maes and Marco Bodt…

“If you’re looking for either of the Bodts, you’re shit out of luck. Marco died when I was just a junior in high school, and Maes passed away about three weeks ago.”

“Are you really that certain that Marco’s dead?” Hitch delicately nibbles the last bit of her muffin, eying him with feigned disinterest, her gaze still predatory like a cat’s.

“Well, Hitch, I might be. Considering I went to his funeral,” he replies bluntly, meeting her gaze fearlessly and pointedly ignoring the crucial fact that Marco’s body at least was still around. After another moment, she sighs and looks away, taking a calm sip off her coffee.

“No need to be so touchy. The dead can’t hear us - no need to defend them so strongly. But what about the Jaegers? Know about either of them?”

“Grisha Jaeger left his kids when I was in college without a word, and I don’t remember much about him even before that. I think he’s still gone or something, since Eren never talks about his dad--”

“Talks? Present tense?”

“Yes,  _talks_. Eren’s alive last I checked, but I’m not in close contact with him. Why are _you_ so desperate anyway?” Jean tries to slant the conversation in his favor, but he’s never been the eloquent type. Armin and Marco were the ones with people skills, not him.

Hitch gives him a smirk. “If I said it was because Kingsguard feels that Salvaging is the true way of the future and wants to reform its public image in order to save lives, would you believe me?”

He studies her; the cold brilliance of her eyes, the arch of her eyebrows, the bow of her lips, and he finds her colder than the weather outside.

“Not if you’re the one who said it.”

She makes a ‘tch’ noise with her tongue and the roof of her mouth, then swills the coffee around in the bottom of her cup. “Such a shame. Well, Jean, if you do ever find something useful about JaegerCorp for me - old research notes, or maybe even one of their old models,” and she catches him with her poison green gaze in a way that weighs heavily with meaning, “I will be sure to make it very worth your while.”

Then she rises and saunters out of the bakery, tossing her cup away on her way out the door. Jean’s gaze follows her outside, and only then does he notice that it’s starting to snow. He takes another long drink of soup and watches flakes drift down, slow and soft in contrast to the bustle of city life; maybe if he was better with words he could make up some kind of poetic analogy about it, but he’s honestly just lost in thought about Kingsguard.

Just when things were starting to settle into something almost normal, here was just something else to stir things up. His life has molded around the Salvage’s that the few hours a day they spend with each other are for the most part comfortable, if not a little quiet. They share the small bedroom and he’s got a second user account on the computer; the Salvage fits neatly in Jean’s life, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the company most of the time.

But he’s under no illusions that Hitch wasn’t looking for his inherited hybrid human, and he can only assume that Maes Bodt kept his Salvage out of the public eye just for those reasons. It was time for Jean to go back to his own digging, and he knew exactly where he’d start - by checking his Salvage for any marks that would make him JaegerCorp. And then… what?

That he couldn’t answer, but he did know that more than anything. He wanted peace of mind that no one else was going to try to steal what was left of his childhood friend from him.

Jean grabs a few bagels to go - this time paid for with own money, and too late does he realize that they’re actually fairly expensive - and heads home, walking more from habit than thrift by now. It still takes him an extra forty five minutes to make it there, however, and he opens the door to see the Salvage in the middle of cleaning up from

“You’re home,” the brunet states, sounding relieved. “I was a little worried since you’re kind of late. Uh, I’m in the middle of putting away dinner but I can get your portion back out if you’re still hungry…?”

“I ate while I was out. Take off your shirt.”

The Salvage nearly drops a dish as his mouth falls open and he stammers with shock.

“I-- what?”

Jean closes his eyes and gives his head a little shake. “Sorry. I had a kind of… hard lunch. That came out weird. But anyway, I want to open you up and see how you work. Strip for me?”

“Jean,” the Salvage pants, still sounding amused and scandalized and… maybe a little breathy? “That still sounds really, really suggestive.”

“Fuck, I don’t mean it like that! I just wanna get a closer look at, like. Your parts.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

What is his luck with conversations today? Jean practically spits the next phrase. “God damn it, Bodt, I mean your robot parts! Stop it, man. I’m not that… that gay.”

This gives the Salvage pause, and he studies Jean with a cautious, curious expression. “... How gay are you, then?”

“Take off your fucking shirt,” Jean crosses his arms, “and go sit in front of the couch.”

“You’ll need the tools from my room - I’ll get them if you put away leftovers,” the Salvage offers, his cheeks still a little red and not helping Jean’s slightly frustrated mood. He accepts the proposition with a grunt, elbowing the other out of the way as he takes over putting the food away and taking the opportunity to seal the bagels into airtight plastic bags. Even cold, the soup - chili of some sort, he assumes - still looks good so he sneaks a taste and makes a little hum of pleasure.

“Great cooking as usual, Bodt,” he calls, trying to smooth over his rough words from before. “I’ll have some for breakfast in the morning.”

He finishes the clean up a few moments later to find the Salvage already half naked and with a box in his hands.

“I think I tossed the written instructions a while ago,” the brunet remarks, and Jean scowls because he honest to God cannot tell if the Salvage is kidding or not.

“Might have come in useful, but don’t sweat it. You’re in very capable hands,” and before he can really correct his words the Salvage is turning away with a faint smile on his face. “Oh, go fuck yourself.”

The Salvage, mercifully, keeps his mouth shut and sets down the tool box on the far side of the couch.

“Do you want me, uh…” he dithers awkwardly for a moment, “facing you or what?”

Jean considers the position for a moment, then makes his decision. “Let’s start off with me checking out your back. And, no, I don’t--”

The Salvage laughs, an honest and familiar sound like he’d not made since Armin was there. “It’s fine, Jean, I know what you mean.”

He settles down onto the floor, propping up his knees and placing his chin on them, stretching out his long, marred back carefully as Jean kneels behind him, running his fingers over the ivory plastic plate that covered his shoulder blade area. Just like before when he shook the Salvage’s hand, the plastic warms quickly under his touch.

“Okay, so how much of this do you feel?”

“Not a lot? It’s programmed to tell me temperature changes and pressure, but generally only in extremes.”

Jean presses with his fingertips then; “do you feel that?”

“Yeah.”

“Does it hurt?”

The Salvage makes a soft little chuckle, almost to himself, then replies placidly. “Not really.”

“I can remove these, right? How?”

“There should be enough room for you to slip your fingers under the edges of the panels. There should be a slight lip and a little past that is a release switch - no,” he corrects Jean as he starts to go from the top edge, “they’re all on the bottom edges. Once you hit that, you should feel it click in release-- but whatever you do, do  _not_  yank them off, all right?”

“All right, all right,” Jean soothes him, releasing the plastic panel and finding it still held in place by a little snarl of wires. “It’s still attached?”

“You’ll need to unscrew that, but please be really careful? They’re basically my replacement nerves, so I’m going to feel whatever you do.”

For the first time, Jean hesitates; he’s starting to get a grasp on how complicated, how delicate his inheritance is. “It won’t hurt you, will it?”

“It stings but it won’t damage me, if that’s what you’re asking,” the Salvage replies, turning his head to the side so he can almost see Jean out of the corner of his eye. “Just… go slowly and be gentle, please.”

Jean fights the urge to make a suggestive face, especially since the Salvage is watching, but he ignores it this time and bites his lip with concentration as he very carefully spins his fingers around the metal screw head. It only takes a few seconds, then the plate comes completely free and the little bundle of artificial nerves is lying against the steel criss cross of ribs that makes up half of the Salvage’s back. He inspects the panel for some kind of designation, but he can’t find as much as a serial number, so he goes back to examining the rest.

“Hey, there are some weird holes in your, uh… ribs back here. Both vertical and horizontal.”

“Oh,” the Salvage replies, his voice muffled and his head bowed, “you’re probably looking at the adjustment mechanism.”

“Thank you,” he replies coolly, “that explains everything.”

The body under his hands shakes a little bit with another chuckle. “Sorry, Jean. You can slide the little pin-like keys into the hole and kind of… crank the bones in my side to adjust them. Since I got this when I was pretty young, they were made to be adjustable to grow with me - but I don’t think my dad ever quite adjusted them enough since I’m a little lopsided. Plus, compared to him and to you, I’m still a bit short.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah, didn’t you notice? You used to come up to my eyes in high school. Now we’re only a couple inches apart.”

“Isn’t it possible that I got a growth spurt?” the blond grumbles as he keeps working, hoping to avoid any awkward questions by just looking for the information himself. He really doesn’t want to talk about his meeting with Hitch, especially not with someone she was probably looking for. But he’s not finding much. Pretty soon he may have to switch tactics.

“If it will help you sleep at night,” and the Salvage hesitates as Jean starts in on the next panel, the one that’s much bigger and half curves around as it follows the path of the steel ribcage, “of course it’s possible. There’s two sets on that panel, maybe more--”

“I see them, I see them,” Jean soothes, noticing how it curves around to the front, then pauses reflectively. “You know, this is kind of nice.”

“How so?”

“It’s not every day I get a machine to talk back to me when I’m working on it.”

“Ah,” the Salvage sighs, and settles himself into a slightly different position, his left cheek on his knee as Jean continues to work and talk casually, mostly to fill in the silence. He doesn’t feel ready to… to face the Salvage while he disassembles him, so he abandons the rib cage panel and starts to work on one the Salvage’s arm.

“I had a job as a car mechanic for a couple years when I was in college - it was kind of a pain trying to balance work with school, but I didn’t want Roy to have to shell out any more money than he already was. It’s not like we had a ton of money, even growing up, but they both insisted I go to college so I did my best to make things as easy as I could for them.”

The body under his hands shifts again as he unscrews the last wire slash nerve cluster from the dome-like panel, revealing the shoulder joint beneath. “You haven’t mentioned your parents before,” he notes softly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t go to their funerals. House fire, right?”

Jean’s reply is tight, terse. “Yeah. It’s not your fault, but thanks for the sympathy. I know I already said it, but likewise - about Maes. Funerals are generally pretty depressing, anyway.”

“I’ve never really thought so. I mean yeah, they’re sad, but,” and the Salvage’s tone grows wistful as Jean finishes checking the panel and moves on to the next largest on the arm, “I always just remember wanting people to be that… well, that affected by my life. You know?”

“I guess.”

He works in silence for another few moments, dismantling his inheritance piece by piece and with studious care. The panels on the arm reveal a complex-looking joint on the top of the shoulder and a pair of piston like tubes half wrapped with more of the wire like nerve clusters - but each of the panels he removes and discard turns up nothing. After a while, he just gets frustrated and starts hunting for the keys the Salvage had mentioned earlier.

“Hey, I’m going to try messing around with these holes back here, okay?”

“That’s probably a good idea. They haven’t been adjusted in a while, just… be careful, okay? Go slowly, just like you did with everything else.”

Jean snorts, feeling a bad temper coming on, and works a little less carefully on slotting one of the metal keys into the holes - they’re hardly keys and more like just long pieces of thick, firm wire with a little bit of a kink at the end which makes it slightly difficult to slot into place, and he fiddles with it while he talks. It’s been a long day, filled with people telling him what to do but not why he has to do them - he thought he’d have escaped that by now, but nope. The universe’s bitch, as per usual.

“So who normally adjusted you?”

“My dad - Doctor Bodt. He wouldn’t really let anyone else touch me, especially after the first time we put on a silicon sleeve.”

“A what?”

“A silicone sleeve - well, most of them are just sleeves, but I had a bit more to cover so mine was also a piece that covered half my face, a bit down my chest and some of my neck.” The first of the three keys click into place, and Jean works on the next one down in the vertical supports near the spine. “It’s a lot like the prosthetics they used to use in movies, since it’s supposed to mimic real skin. But my real skin tended to react to the adhesive and apparently I looked really… horrific the first time I tried one on.”

“Apparently?” Jean echoes as he works on the next key, dropping it to the floor by accident and muttering a curse under his breath. “Didn’t you see it for yourself?”

“I saw my hand, and it looked horrible enough. The skin didn’t fit right and I had nightmares for a few weeks after that about… about my old arm, my real one, being reattached to my body and rotting there.” The Salvage shifts on the carpet, and Jean notes the goosebumps prickle up his spine. “They said my face looked fine, but one of the people fitting me for it had to leave the room to throw up, so I doubt it.”

And now they were getting somewhere. “They?” Jean asks as he works on the final key. “Who fitted you?”

“Oh, uh… the same people who made my right side.”

“And who, exactly, was that?”

If he had looked a little uncomfortable before, the Salvage certainly did now, the muscles in his living shoulder going tense. “Can we not talk about this now?”

“Why not?”

“It’s… complicated, and not the good kind of complicated. Please, Jean, I don’t want to upset you.”

Jean fits in the final key at last, but instead of feeling accomplished he just feels more frustrated than before.

“Well, it’s a little damn late for that, but fine.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because,” and Jean huffs, hesitates, then starts to turn the first key - pulling it to the side gently made the middle section spin and reveal a new hole. He disengaged the key from the first and went to work sliding into the second. “I ran into someone today who works for Kingsguard and they asked about Maes. Well,” he elaborates, “to be more specific, they asked about JaegerCorp, and if I knew anyone related to their old employees.”

“And what did you tell them?” The Salvage’s voice is starting to sound strained.

“I told her that both the Bodts were dead and that I’m not in close contact with Eren or his dad,” and he jerks the key a little harder to the left this time, and it slides smoothly in the third hole. “Geez, you’re a fucking hypocrite. ’ _Oooooh, Jean, I don’t want to upset you but I can’t dare tell you anything about my dark secret past_.’”

He yanks again, and the Salvage hisses in a sharp breath, but doesn’t cut him off so he keeps going, building momentum.

“And you know? Fine, keep your goddamn history to yourself, clam up again, not talk to me for almost ten years and then just expect things to go back to the way they were. Fucking peachy. But just answer me this; why?”

“Jean, you might want to--”

“Why me?” He demands, his plea punctuated by another turn of the key. “Why am I the one who has to inherit you? Why are you here?”

“Jean, please stop--”

But he’s really irritated by now, too fed up with too many things to stop - either talking or adjusting the other’s joints. “Why does everyone expect me to just fucking act like everything’s just fine? Why am I expected to just roll over and take everyone’s shit? Why can’t I just be treated like an adult?”

“Jean--!”

“Why do I drink? Why do I keep having nightmares? Why do I still miss people so badly? Why do I miss--”

 _CRACK_.

The sound finally breaks through Jean’s rant, and he suddenly notices several things - the way that the Salvage is trembling under him, the way his right shoulder is almost an inch higher than the other. But mostly he just sees the trail of bright red blood sprouting from torn skin at the seam where flesh and synthetic bone meet, right next to where he’s been yanking the key thoughtlessly in his blind anger.

His mind jumps him back almost ten years before, when he’d been riding his bike home from school and stopped to gawk at the scene of a car accident.

“Oh, shit,” he gasps, “Bodt, oh god what--”

His heart is pounding frantically, his stomach feels like it’s trying to escape through his mouth, and he’s trying to force himself to calm down even though there’s blood, there’s blood it’s bleeding the machine is bleeding oh god no that’s not a machine, not even a little bit it doesn’t matter what the paper work says, this isn’t an object  _this is_ \--

“Just turn it the other way,” the Salvage gasps, and Jean’s panicked train of thought crashes to a halt. He knows what to do, he can fix this, and the sense of purpose grounds him. Hands still shaking, he manages to crank the metal back into place even as every turn unleashes a new little burst of blood that trails down the spine. Jean keeps trying to wipe up the carmine with his free hand but it just kind of gets smeared everywhere and he’s really feeling nauseous.

At last, the Salvage breaths out a shaky, “that should do it,” and hardly have the words registered in Jean’s mind then he’s stumbling to his feet to careen into the bathroom and vomit into the toilet. He doesn’t stop for several minutes and when he does, he can hardly stand up for his entire body shaking - but eventually, he manages to get up and wash off his hands, returning to the living room with a wet wash cloth and a first aid kit in hand. The Salvage turns a weak brown eye in his direction, but the first words he speaks are, “are you okay?”

“I’ll be all right, and you’re one to ask that. I heard something break, are you…” Just as bad as his horror at the blood is the guilt, the fear. He can’t let anything happen to this, this whatever-he-is, and he almost _broke_ him. “Are you gonna be all right?”

The Salvage looks as if he wants to shrug, winces, and settles for a failed attempt at a smile. “Yeah, I think I will be. You might have just popped something in my spine, since I can’t feel anything really serious.”

Jean kneels behind him once more, wipes off the sticky, drying blood and tries to remember how to breathe. He fails once or twice with a little catch in his throat, but the Salvage keeps quiet. Once the area is clean, and in the precious moments before more blood trickles out of the uneven tear, Jean can already make out the evidence of a nasty bruise.

“I’m going to put a bandage on that and then I’m going to, to get some ice for you, okay?”

The Salvages makes a soft noise of acknowledgement as Jean applies the largest adhesive bandage he has in his pack, which shows red bleeding through within moments. “Thank you,” the brunet adds when he stands, and Jean feels a little sicker as he fetches something cold from the freezer.

“Don’t thank me. I should have been more careful with you.” He presses a package of frozen peas he suspects came with the fridge when he first moved in against the spot on the Salvage’s spine. “Okay?”

“Yeah.”

The living room is silent for another long minute or two, then the Salvage speaks up again.

“I am the first successful Salvage ever created by Doctor Jaeger, and consequentially… I’m JaegerCorp’s prototype. Or I was, back when there was a JaegerCorp.”

Jean lets out a long, low breath through his nose. Of course the Salvage would be moe than he seemed. It’s just his luck - yet another fine print to deal with, a fresh complication. He should have known better than to believe that anything could actually go his way without some kind of side effect.

He doesn’t know Hitch very well, but he gets the sense that she’s not the type to give up on whatever it is that she wants. If it’s his inheritance that she wants, the only thing he’s willing to give her is a fight.

“Thank you,” he replies, resting his forehead against the Salvage’s shoulder and letting out a heavy, unsteady sigh against the other’s skin. His hand is going numb from holding the package of ex-peas. He’s still recovering from the shock of the situation, but they probably both are so it’s okay to do this. He raises his head and pauses at the sight of freckles on the skin - they’re faint, probably because the Salvage hasn’t been out in the sun for God knows how long, but they’re there. Jean reaches up with his free arm and places his palm against the Salvages’s collarbone, traces his fingers along the tiny, slightly darker flecks like splattered stains, and when he looks up the Salvage is giving him a curious look out of the corner of his eye.

“I was, uh,” and a little too late does Jean realize he doesn’t really have anything to explain his actions with, but in the space of that moment of hesitation something in the brunet’s expression - something just kind of shifts, like the lighting in the room changes and he - either of them, it’s hard to tell which - seems to have something brought to the surface, revealed like a secret. Jean takes in a sharp breath and he wants to lean forward, maybe, for some reason--

The Salvage startles a little and makes a hissing noise between his teeth. Just that easily, the spell is broken. Jerking away, the blond sees that the melting package of peas has managed to sweat a little trail of icy water down the other’s spine, and he takes that as his cue to remove the impromptu, ersatz ice pack.

“That should do it,” he claims with feigned confidence and finality, and rises to his feet. “I’m going to… have some water. And some sleep. Or maybe a shower.”

“I’d start with the shower first,” the Salvage suggests, shifting to the side very carefully as he uses the couch to help him upright. Jean just stands there for an idiot watching the other struggle to his feet, then once the Salvage is upright he kind of maybe slightly flees to the bathroom.

He’d forgotten to flush the vomit down from earlier so he does it now, holding his breath and looking away until the sounds of fluid dies down and he strips, nothing careful or slow because he just wants this over with - but what? He’s running from something, but what?

Sooner or later, he’s going to have to return to put the panels back on the Salvage. Sooner or later he’s going to have to face what he’s done and what he’s now tasked with hiding. But neither of them are what he needs to do right now, so he lathers up and scrubs the faint traces of blood off his hands until the water runs cold.


	7. Hidden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUCK i have a ton of people to shout out to here becauSE FANART??? 
> 
> solos of marco [here by deniigisukarno](http://deniigisukarno.tumblr.com/post/75422986212/ro-bodt-marco-inspired-by-lostlegendaeries) and [here by unwillingfire](http://lostlegendaerie.tumblr.com/post/75426028944/unwillingfire-submitted-hi-i-obsessed) and tHEN HOLY SHIT [A COMIC BASED ON THE END OF CHAPTER THREE](http://maggins.tumblr.com/post/75322055550) and a [beautiful gif](http://marcobottd.tumblr.com/post/75815784231/its-a-simple-check-on-the-back-of-your-drivers) using footage from "i, robot"
> 
> i track the tags 'render au' and 'fic: render' psa and hoLY WOW??? im so just blown away by everyone's reception of this like wow i cant possibly thank you all enough im just a wailing whiny mess because oh my god???? thank you so much

Jean’s up early again, woken up by his internal alarm this time and not by the one he usually sets for his construction job. The Salvage is asleep in the twin sized bed across the room from him, the lone desk occupying the space of the last remaining wall with precious inches to spare between the heads of the two beds]. On the Salvage’s half of the desk, a mostly empty glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen sit as the evidence of the lingering shoulder injury.

It’s been a few days since the incident, but Jean still can’t really look at the brunet without feeling a sense of unease. Guilt or something like it keeps tugging at him and he’s back to acting like he did the first day or so, avoiding eye contact and answering in short sentences. It’s frustrating for Jean himself since internally he wants things to go back to normal but he knows that they-- that _he’s_ crossed some kind of line and he needs to fix it.

But he’s still only capable of heaving a sigh, studying the silhouette of his roommate in the faint glow of his right eye, and slinking out of the room as stealthily as possible.

Jean kind of hates the taste of coffee unless it’s doctored beyond comprehension, so when he goes to find out that all their flavored beans are gone he makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. True, the Salvage had been the one to put the stuff on the grocery list last week, and Jean knew that they both drank it, but still.

There’s a list attached handily to the fridge - one detailing a variety of groceries and a few assorted other supplies, as per usual. It’s a considerably more detailed and varied list of food than Jean would have ever bothered with on his own; he personally sticks to the staples of bread, milk, eggs, and beer but his inheritance insists on keeping a moderate stock of fruits and vegetables on hand, along with meats and cheeses and all the little herbs that Jean swears are just weeds from the sidewalk. He buys them anyway and every once in a while he pulls out a few of the little bottles and inhales deeply, because collectively they smell like the Salvage and his cooking, and somehow those things are adding up to smell like home.

Jean skims down this morning’s list, both with his eyes and a fingertip as he turns on the stove top, placing the nonstick skillet on the nearest heating coil. Eggs, shredded cheese, ah and there’s the coffee beans with a little sad face scribbled next to the left leaning looping letters. He smiles, skims down a few more items - sweet potatoes, canned corn, bananas, chocolate chips (semi sweet), and something called kale? He has no idea what that is, but trusts that either the clerks at the store or the internet in general will know what this mysterious grocery item is. Either that, or wait until the Salvage wakes up and ask him directly--

“Why the confused face, Jean?”

Speak of the devil, so goes the old saying, but it’s a little more like ‘Think of the robot zombie’ in this case. No, that doesn’t quite fit any more either, not after the bright red reminder that at least 60% of the Salvages’ body still bleeds. Jean gives an articulate grunt and a shrug, stepping out of the way to let the brunet get to the fridge, watching the Salvage pull out the carton of eggs and jug of milk. Jean grabs the magnetic pen he’d MacGyver’d together back in college and adds ‘blond hair dye’ to the list, bracing the paper against the fridge door as he scribbles, then he turns his attention back to the brunet.

“What the hell is kale?”

The Salvage cracks one of the eggs, one-handed and elegant, into a bowl. “It’s a leafy winter vegetable. It’s really good if you kind of… steam it in water for a few minutes? Some people salt it, too, but I like mine plain. How do you want your eggs?”

“You don’t have to cook this morning,” Jean starts, but the Salvage sidesteps artfully, carefully keeping the blond away from the counter where he starts breaking eggs into small bowls.

“I have nothing better to do with my time these days. At leave give me something productive to do. How do you want your eggs?” he repeats.

“Scrambled,” Jean mutters, and takes in a breath. He wants to ask _how’s the shoulder_ , just like he’s tried to every time he’s seen the other since the incident, but the words catch in his throat. He clears it awkwardly and lets the words die in his mouth,

The Salvage half turns to catch Jean in his field of vision, then resumes his task with a faint smile; but not before Jean catches the look.

“What’s with your face, then, huh?” Jean retorts, trying to turn the situation back in his favor; he’s feeling left out and at a distinct disadvantage.

“It’s nothing, Jean.”

He huffs and sulks his way out to the living room, flipping on the TV to check the weather. “Like hell it is.”

Jean can still hear the sounds of the Salvage working in the kitchen over the babble of the meteorologist, and it’s like a little domestic melody of cracking eggs, pouring milk, the distinct sound of a whisk and then the glorious sizzle of eggs hitting the frying pan. He’s getting used to this, a little too used to it, and he glances over the back of the couch, his ire already long gone to be replaced with…

At the exact moment the Salvage pokes his head around the corner, his one brown eye radiating concern. Their gazes meet and all the tension in the other’s expression melts, his freckled cheek turning up into a half smile before he vanishes back into the kitchen. Jean’s heart does it a little flip, and, startled by the unsettling reaction, turns back to the television with a fresh scowl on his face.

It’s supposed to be a nice day, with some sunshine bright and clear enough to filter down through the mesh of cables under the railway, but still cold enough that he’s tempted to call Armin to see if they can’t carpool to save him taking the bus to get groceries. The blond pediatrician generally doesn’t have office hours before 3pm on Thursdays, and the one time he had to make an emergency call he’d paid for Jean’s taxi home. Jean taps his fingers idly against his sweatpants that cleverly double as pajama bottoms as he contemplates his choices and then, inevitably, his life.

He’s not too happy with what he sees, to be honest - but thankfully his room mate slash inheritance slash friend appears then with two plates of scrambled eggs, lightly dotted with ground black pepper and still steaming. The larger of the two is handed to Jean, and he accepts it gratefully, inwardly impressed that the Salvage had been able to carry out both plates and silverware without dropping them. But, he noticed, the robotic right hand wasn’t unsteady, just a little slower and less precise than the other.

But his eggs are the real object of important here. “Fantastic,” Jean comments, before even tasting the food - it’s on his fork moments later, and then in his mouth and he has no desire to take back the compliment.

“Thank you,” the Salvage remarks, sitting carefully next to him - a faintest flicker of a wince crosses his face, then he gets to the serious business of eating, his left hand holding the fork as his right steadies the plate on his lap. “I assume you’re going to the store today?”

“I was planning on it, yes.”

“Would you mind if I came with you?”

Jean’s gut reaction is to snap, “no,” but he holds his tongue and chews very slowly. Why wouldn’t he want the Salvage with him? So long as they stayed together, the brunet would be fairly safe - Jean didn’t own a firearm or anything to seriously defend himself with, but he’d worked construction long enough that he kept in moderate shape. If anyone tried anything (from Kingsguard or otherwise) he should be fine.

“I… suppose so. I assume you’ll want to cover up a bit, right?”

“What, the robotic side? I’ve already gotten that taken care of.” And the Salvage winks, or maybe just enthusiastically blinks at him as he flashes another uneven smile. “The face I’d ordered a month or so ago finally came in, so the only thing I’ll need is about 30 minutes in the bathroom applying it.”

Jean really can’t find a proper reason to say no, can’t find a name for the unease mixing with the eggs in the pit of his stomach, so he tilts his head in an admission of defeat. “Sure. I’ll call Armin, see if he’s willing to drive us. We can swing by the employment office, too - I’ve got some paperwork to fill out that shouldn’t take more than an hour, and maybe you two could go grab coffee or something.”

The Salvage’s nose crinkles as he frowns. “What, you don’t trust us to get groceries all by ourselves?”

“No, I don’t trust you or Armin to be able to settle on who pays for the food.” Jean stabs the air between him with his fork. “You’re both such sentimental pushovers you’d try to pay for both and get into some kind of vicious polite-off in the middle of the store. Then the police would arrest you, I’d have to jog downtown to bust your asses out of jail and then we’d have to find a new place to shop and go even further out of Sinapolis.”

Throughout his rant, the Salvage hasn’t looked away from Jean’s face, smirking around his bites of egg. When at last Jean finished painting the scenario, the brunet quips back with, “you’ve really got this all envisioned, don’t you?”

“Didn’t I tell you? I can see the future.”

“Oh?” Laugher simmers in the Salvage’s voice. “ Then what will I be doing, say… tonight?”

“Probably sitting in jail if you two try to go shopping without me,” Jean snorts, rising to take his clean dish out to the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

Jean has to admit, he’s actually fairly impressed by the Salvage’s getup.

Apparently whoever made the latex covering had learned from their mistake of trying to aim for a completely unblemished look - the right side of the Salvage’s face looked a little chewed up, but more with the look of old burn scars than the look of a horror movie extra. A large eyepatch covered the glowing battery, making his friend look like, simply, a human who’d had a bad accident. The false skin went down his neck a little past where the hooded sweatshirt covered his arm, and two fuzzy winter gloves completed the look.

“Sorry that took so long,” the brunet apologies, running his left hand through his hair in a nervous gesture. “I’d forgotten how long it takes to apply this stuff.”

“Let me check to make sure you got it on,” Jean insists, circling around the Salvage’s side and hunting for any visible seams between silicone and flesh. Thankfully, the dark brown hair was long enough in most places to cover the less graceful glue job he’d done on the side, especially behind the false ear, and Jean picks out a clump of the adhesive from the dark, almost black locks.

“You’re good to go,” he informs him, slapping him gently in what he thought was the lower back. The Salvage makes a little yelp, and Jean leaps backward.

“Shit, I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, I’m-- you’re fine,” comes the breathless reply, then Jean’s phone flashes a text message.

 

**From: Life Arlert [12:08PM]**

_I’m here_

 

“All right, then let’s roll. Our ride’s here.”

He grabs a coat and ushers the Salvage out the door, locking up the apartment behind him and patting his pockets for the necessities - wallet, phone and shopping list, check, check and check - as they head down the stairs. Out on the street, Armin is leaning against the passenger side of his sleek navy car, staring up at the half-finished railway system above their heads.

“You did good work, Jean, even if you were just screwing-- Marco?”

“Hey, now, finish that thought, Armin,” the dyed blond scolds him as the blue eyed doctor embraces the Salvage warmly, uncomfortably aware of the double entendre. He is, of course, ignored.

“Your face…” Armin murmurs, one hand still lingering on the Salvage’s shoulder. “Didn’t you mention that you get an allergic reaction to the adhesive used for that stuff?”

Jean scowls, a little irked that Armin seems to have known that little fact about his inheritance already, but the brunet just makes a dismissive gesture with his left hand.

“Yeah, but I haven’t tried this sort of thing for a few years. I would like to think that the formula’s changed since then, but if not it’s not a big deal. It’ll just sting a little, maybe swell--”

“Jean, add an antihistamine cream to your shopping list,” Armin suggests in a tone that’s not within five miles of being a suggestion. Rolling his amber eyes, Jean retrieves the shopping list.

“Got a pen?” he asks Armin.

“In the car. We may as well get going now, anyway - when do you want to head to the unemployment office, Jean?”

“I was gonna say before, but I checked their hours and they’re closed on Thursdays for some reason, so I’ll just go tomorrow.”

With a little sigh that reeks of parental disapproval, the pediatrician slides into the driver’s side seat of his car, unlocking the doors with press of a button. The car chirps, seemingly in reply, as it starts up.

“Nice car,” the Salvage comments as he crawls into the backseat. Jean heads for shotgun, finds the seat filled with a large medical looking box of papers, and gives Armin a dirty look over the top of the box.

“It’s from the office. I’ve got to drop it by recycling on the way home,” he replies simply, but Jean just grumbles and starts to get in the back seat beside the Salvage. He pauses with the door open and one knee on the seat before noticing that he’s entering on the brunet’s blind side.

“Something wrong, Jean?” asks Armin, innocently.

“Nah, we’re good,” and he shuts the door, walking around the back of the car and reentering directly behind Armin, “so scoot over, Bodt.”

“Yes, sir,” and he’s given another one of those unsettling smiles from before. Jean’s eyes linger on both side’s of the Salvage’s face before turning to face straight ahead with a little snort.

“They forgot the freckles. On your right side.”

The Salvage doesn’t say anything, and neither does Armin but Jean senses a little static charge in the air, like the two most important people in his life are communicating telepathically. But what bothers him - more than the potential for there to be telepathy at all - is that these two dorky, bossy, and thoroughly meddling losers are the most important people in his life. Thus, he spends the entire drive to the supermarket just out of town darkly speculating what he must have done in a past life that he had these two to look out for him, whether he wanted them to or not.

Armin parks the car in what feels like the furthest spot away from the supermarket, and Jean groans.

“Goddamn it, Arlert, I don’t want to have to carry eggs and coffee and whatever the fuck kale is three miles. If I wanted to do that, I’d have walked here myself.”

“Walking is good for you, Kirstein,” is his reply - he hears the Salvage take in a short breath, like he’s ready to jump to Jean’s defense, but Armin is having none of that. “Marco, don’t pay any attention to him. He always bitches when he has to shop.”

“I do not!” Jean protests as the brunet follows Armin’s example and exits the vehicle. “Name _one_ time.”

“Last time I took you, we almost got kicked out of the store because the clerk wouldn’t take your coupon.”

He snorts as he struggles with the seatbelt. “That clerk was a piece of shit.”

“Your coupon had expired by three months, Jean,” Armin reminds him, and the Salvage laughs quietly.

“Come on,” the brunet waves at Jean over his shoulder as the other sulks in the backseat, “or we’re leaving you!”

Remembering his so called vision from that morning, the dyed blond fairly leaps out of the car, very nearly slamming the door on the edge of his coat as he chases his friends down. “All right, fine, I’m coming! Assholes.”

The supermarket is pretty crowded, filled with the sound of voices and the grating wheels of shopping carts - Jean finds himself on the Salvage’s right side and taps the other’s forearm. The Salvage’s head jerks around faster than he’d ever seen before to give him a wide, frightened dark brown stare. A proverbial deer in the headlights look, and Jean meets the expression with one of smug confidence.

“Oh, don’t look so horrified. They’re just people. Tell you what, I’ll be your eyes on this side, so long as you’re willing to help me spot whatever kale is. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” the brunet replies, with a little less sass than he had in the car. He starts to reach to throw his hood over his head, but Jean stops him.

“Leave it. You’re fine.”

“I’m not fine, Jean,” the other hisses, and Armin gives them both a silent, sideways glances as he heads off to retrieve a cart. “Everyone’s staring at me. I-- I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Yes you can. So what if they stare at you? Look,” and he catches the eye of the nearest kid, sticks his fingers in the corners of his mouth and makes the worst face he can muster. When he uncrosses his eyes, straightens and pulls his tongue back in his mouth the kid has hidden on the other side of his mother. “See? Problem solved.”

“Please don’t make faces at my clients, Jean.” Armin returns, pushing the cart ahead of them and offering the mother a placating, apologetic smile as they pass by.

“Don’t look so sorry,” Jean retorts, “her kid’s rude as fuck for staring.”

“Please don’t swear in the department store, Jean,” comes his only reply as the shorter man leads them to the produce section, selecting a bag of apples with some deliberation. Taking the Salvage’s right hand, Jean gently tugs him along and follows Armin’s example, examining the banana stand and trying to gauge how many to buy.

The voice in his ear is soft and almost impossible to catch over the discordant sounds of the supermarket.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“What, the thing with the kid?” Jean ‘pffts’ in dismissal. “Come on, that? That was more my pleasure than anything.”

“Jean,” and now it turns scolding, but the effect is somewhat ruined when only half of the Salvage’s face manages to scowl. The blond raises his eyebrow to counter balance the effect.

“Don’t make that expression with half a face, dude, it’s even more unsettling. I would rather not make a huge scene, to be honest.”

And of course, right on cue because nothing even goes entirely how Jean Kirstein wants it, a roar of glee erupts from several aisles over.

“IT’S MARCOOOOOO!”

The first one to come into sight, actually sprinting at top speed, is a short man with medium-dark skin and a buzz cut who Jean hasn’t seen for a couple years. Unfortunately for this young man, the first thought to cross Jean’s mind was that a hug with that much enthusiasm would seriously hurt the Salvage, so he throws out his arm with the intention of catching the incoming person. But Jean misjudges his height a little bit too much and ends up clotheslining the speeding, younger man instead.

“MARCOOOO!”

The second cry comes from behind him, and Jean’s too late to stop a woman with reddish brown hair in a messy bun from jumping onto the Salvage’s back and wrapping her legs and arms around his torso.

“Connie? Sasha?” If the Salvage is in pain, he’s good at hiding it, his brown eye wide and bright with unshed tears as Connie dusts himself from the floor and gives Jean a dirty look before he joins his companion in becoming the second slice of bread in a very loud, very big and very disruptive three person sandwich.

“Dude, what the fuck even happened to you?”

Sasha squeezed the Salvage even tighter, and Jean feels his body go rigid. “We missed you so much! We heard through the grapevine that you’re back from the grave, but I didn’t think we’d find you so soon!”

The Salvage’s arms wrap around Connie as he laughs. “I missed you guys too! Have you been well?”

“Hell yeah!” Sasha releases one arm from around the Salvage’s neck for long enough to high five Connie. “We’re in town for a theatre production. I’m lighting, and he’s sound.”

“Oh yeah? What show?”

“ _Blithe Spirit_!” Connie explains as Sasha slides down and unashamedly snuggles against the Salvage’s side. “It’s about this writer guy who wants to write a book mocking séances but ends up reviving the ghost of his first wife! It’s really hilarious. You guys should come see it at the theatre downtown in a couple months - we’ve still gotta build the set and everything, but still!”

“I’d love to,” the Salvage assures them as they finally release him and crowd around like over eager dogs. Jean rolls his eyes and grabs Connie by the top of the head, pulling him backwards so he can get close to the taller brunet’s neck. He’s paranoid, maybe, but the last thing they need to have happen is for some of the metal beneath the silicone to become visible.

“Uh, Jean,” Connie starts, “what are you--?”

He checks the seams of the silicone with his fingertips, skimming carefully over the skin as the four other people stand in silence - and so do a significant amount of other people, he notices when he pulls away. Red stains his cheeks, and another quick glance confirms his suspicions that the brunet’s sharing his expression, except his eye has that subtle kind of glow that keeps showing up in weird moments whenever their gazes meet.

Jean takes out his embarrassment on the nearest target, which happens to be Sasha this time, and he claps her roughly on the shoulder. “Geez, I still can’t believe they let people like you within three hundred feet of electric lights.”

She huffs and stamps her foot, probably trying to stomp on Jean’s in retaliation, but instead her foot lands on Connie’s and he yowls in pain. Apparently satisfied, the tiny crowd that had formed around the five friends and the innocent banana stand dissipated; but in the depths, Jean catches a glimpse of ashen blonde hair that looks strangely familiar.

He scowls, and takes a step in their direction - but the sight, whatever it had been, vanishes, and his friends are already starting to move along so he follows them.

“So, Marco,” Connie starts, standing up tall as he can and crossing his arms behind his head like a goddamned cartoon character, “I’m sure there’s a big impressively long story about how you’ve come back from the dead, right?”

“There’s not,” Jean starts, about to correct him that this isn’t Marco, not really; but then Armin, who had managed somehow to avoid the entire fiasco that was the Connie and Sasha screaming sandwich (trademark pending) cut in.

“He’s a Salvage, actually, and he’s just been in hiding most of this time.” His voice is low, but around these two theatre clowns, it’s probably pointless.

“Hiding?” Sasha never fails to disappoint with vocal volume, but at least she didn’t use the trigger word. “Why? He seems pretty good at blending in.”

Jean tries to hold in his laughter, he really does - but it comes out of his nose instead in a rather painful burst of air like a backfired sneeze, and all four of his companions give him a variety of strange stares ranging from the judgmental (Armin), the irritated confused (Connie), the ordinary confused (Sasha) and the embarrassed by proxy (the Salvage).

“Well,” and this time the Salvage comes to his own defense, “there’s some things I can’t entirely hide.” And to illustrate this point, he raises his right arm slowly. The movement is just a little too stiff and jerky to be entirely human and Jean’s never noticed it before - but here, under the guise of being entirely human, the effect is unsettling. It’s somewhat like the motions of an animatronic amusement park character, and judging by the expressions on Sasha and Connie’s faces, Jean’s not alone in his horror.

“Creepy, dude,” Connie sums up the experience - and just like that, they move along as a collective.

They continue along for a minute or so in relative silence, Jean pressed up close to the Salvage’s right side, suddenly all too aware of the slight tilt to the other’s shoulders, the way his right arm didn’t swing as he walked and a myriad of tiny little inhuman signals that broadcasted his state loud as day.

As he had before, he takes the Salvage’s robotic hand, squeezing until he can feel the edges of the plastic through the glove and matches his pace, keeping his own arm carefully stiff.

“What are you doing?” Sasha’s the one who calls him out on his behavior, but he’s too busy checking out eggs to really pay attention her.

“Trying to help him be subtle, unlike you two.”

“Woah, Jean, not even gonna pull a no homo on us?” Connie’s leer can be heard through his voice. There’s no need to Jean to look in his direction. He does anyway.

The shorter man’s expression doesn’t even falter under his senior’s best stare. It’s a bit humiliating, to be honest, but he can’t lord his age over Connie forever, he guesses.

“It’s fine, Connie.” Armin speaks up this time, his face placid as he checks the expiration date on a package of processed cheese slices. “They actually live together now.”

Connie’s eyebrows, the hairiest part of him - as least as far as Jean knows - raise in tandem with his eyes going as big and round as his mouth. Sasha catches on moments later and matches his expression, and together they make a sound vaguely like a tornado siren as they croon over this shocking and scandalous development.

“Oh, _god_ , Armin, was that even necessary?” Jean growls over the chorus of idiots harmonizing their surprise.

“Extremely necessary,” the blond replies, taking a bottle of orange juice and adding it to their shared cart as Sasha and Connie continue their hooting. Jean snarls and almost breaks half the eggs in the carton as he slams it into their cart.

“Well, you guys can all just go to the pharmacy for some Viagra so you can _go fuck yourselves_!”

A few minutes later they all have a very polite discussion with the staff about use of foul language in the store, with Armin acting as mediator, and everyone manages to leave with their groceries and without a lifetime ban to the supermarket. But all Jean really focuses on, and he tries very hard not to, is the way that the Salvage’s thumb brushed gracelessly over his on their way back to the car.

Before they all part, however, Armin gathers them close to him like a bantam hen trying to herd together her adolescent chicks - and maybe a couple ducks, since Jean’s almost a full head taller than the natural blonde and the Salvage matches him closely.

“So I’m having my annual, generically autumn themed party again this year, and I _will_ see each of you there.” He doesn’t ask, since he knows that Connie and Sasha will never turn down the prospect of free food. And he doesn’t ask Jean because he’s not going to give him a choice, and instead meets Jean’s somewhat shamed stare with a bright smile.

Jean sighs. “Yeah, I’ll come this year…”

“Finally! Man, you’ve skipped the last three, maybe more.” Connie claps Jean on the shoulder roughly, almost enough to knock him off balance, but instead he just reaches up and adjusts the collar of his jacket with both hands.

“I’ve been busy with work,” he protests.

“But you can’t use that excuse this time since you quit your construction job,” the Salvage adds, in the least helpful way at the least helpful time possible. Jean drops his hands back down by his sides, ignoring this time if maybe a gloved hand reaches for his again.

“Yeah, all right. I’ll probably still be looking for a new job by then, so… I’ll go.”

“Will you bring Marco?”

Jean opens his mouth, cold words of correction ready at the tip of his tongue; ‘this isn’t Marco, he’s just got what’s left of Marco’s body’ but… he stops himself. Not because he doesn’t believe that to be the case - he does, truly and completely - but because he almost wants to believe that they’re the same. Or at least he’ll admit to himself that, just this once, he’s not going to be the cynic and lay down the cold hard truth.

“Sure. We’ll be there.”

He has to take a step back this time as he’s suddenly made the filling of a whooping, loud Connie and Sasha sandwich, fighting the desire to laugh and failing. Under the more sedate eyes of Armin and the Salvage, Jean hoists both of the young adults into the air and twirls them around, the sound of their joy echoing in the sunlit parking lot.

 

* * *

 

That night, in a vicious counterpoint to the day, is a rough one.

Jean’s generally a pretty heavy sleeper, but it’s been one of those nights where he just can’t get to sleep. So when he wakes up near the magic hour of three am he more or less resigns himself to his fate, and rolls over to turn on the light and try to accomplish something. But that’s when he sees it; his Salvage curled into a ball, his back to Jean and trembling. Now he notices the uneven pitch of his breathing and the choked back little sounds muffled, he guesses, by a pillow. He listens for a moment more just to be sure, but those are certainly sounds of distress. Marco used to have nightmares, too…

He rises softly, padding over to place a careful hand on the sweat-damp shoulder - and jumps back when the Salvage reacts explosively, uncoiling like a spring with a gasp and immediately sits up to start clawing at his prosthetic.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Jean catches the other’s wrist, but there’s already a faint stain of blood on the skin, ink black and sinister in the blue light that’s guttering and dim. “Stop, what are you--”

“I can’t breathe, I--” He’s fighting the blond’s grip now, trying to tear at the seam between the halves of his body with both hands now. Jean loses his patience and pins the Salvage to the bed with his knee; it really doesn’t help the brunet’s breathing, which is getting rather shallow.

It looks like the battery slash eye is almost out of juice, and Jean continues a half-articulate stream of soothing phrases as he visually hunts around the room for the backup light.

“You’re fine, Bodt, just… just take it easy.”

“I’m not f-fine, I ca-- I can’t-- I c--”

Jean leans off the other just enough to let him take in a deep, rattling gasp that frightens him, and takes the reprieve to grab both asymmetrical wrists and pin them on either side of the Salvage’s face.

“I need you to listen to me. Do you know where you are right now?”

“Wh-what?” the Salvage’s voice is a distant, confused gasp that sends a spike of fear right into Jean’s spine.

“Where are you,” he repeats. The breathing gets a little slower, but even raspier.

“I’m… I’m in my car--”

Oh, shit. Jean lets out a short breath through his nose and squeezes the wrists tighter. “No you’re not. You’re in my apartment, Jean Kirstein’s apartment in Sinapolis. I think your battery’s running low, do you remember where your other battery is?”

“My other…” it seems then that at least part of what he’s saying goes through, but when the Salvage deflates it’s not from a sense of relief. “God, I don’t care. Leave it.”

Jean feels his body go a little cold at the phrasing. “What?”

“I said to… to leave it. I don’t know where the… other battery is and… I don’t care,” he puffs out, trying to sound defiant but instead just sounds weak. Sounds like he’s dying, and Jean is definitely starting to panic.

“Bodt, no, I have to find your battery--”

“No you don’t, just… leave me like this and… throw me out with… with the trash in the morning…” With this declaration, the last light in the room flickers and dies. Jean leaps to his feet and sprints out of the room, throwing on every light in the apartment as he hunts.

He can’t find anything that looks like the backup battery plugged into the wall, but he finds the bag filled with tools from weeks prior and hunts through that. He finds what looks like an inverse light socket on a cord, one that plugs directly into the wall, and he runs back into the bedroom. In the light, the Salvage looks pale and his mismatched frame is heaving, jerking in uncanny motions as his body likely tries to inflate the lung that no longer exists.

Jean’s fingers are quick as they spin the spent battery out of the socket, trying to fit it in the cord he’d found - but it’s the opposite of what he needs, it’s pegs instead of holes. He plugs the cord into the wall anyway, grabbing the Salvage in a headlock and tries to force the peg end of the cord into the reconstructed eye socket. It clicks into place, and then there’s a whir as the man in his arms takes in a deep gasp.

Relieved beyond words, Jean wraps his arms around the other, half for his own comfort and half to try to stop the Salvage from doing any more damage to his own body. The blood is sticky against his shirt but he can also feel a heartbeat, feel the rise and fall of the other’s chest that’s now uneven with sobs.

“You still with me, Bodt?” he asks, his tone gentle as he rubs the Salvage’s back absently, fingers running over the fresh scar along the seam along the spine.

“--rry” is the muffled reply.

“Come again?”

“I’m sorry. I’m… I’m sorry you had to see that, Jean. I’m okay now, I think.” But the tremble in his voice kind of counteracts that statement and Jean doesn’t let go, not for another long minute until their breathing slows, syncs up with each other. He’s not comforted just yet; something else about the scene is bothering him.

“Does… does that sort of thing happen often?”

The Salvage shifts in his arms, dragging the cool cord against Jean’s throat, trying to find a comfortable position around the hindrance. “With the battery dying? No. It hasn’t happened for… for a while.”

“But before that; I mean, you thought you were still in your car and you started…” he swallows, bracing himself to speak. “Trying to tear yourself in two.”

The Salvage’s silence is answer enough.

“God, Bodt,” and he loosens his grip enough to pull away slightly. “How long?”

“It used to be a lot worse, every night or so,” and the Salvage avoids his gaze, but can’t turn too far away due to the cord firmly attached to his skull.

“ _How long?”_

“I’ve had… I’ve had a nightmare a couple times a week since my dad died. This one was just a little worse, I guess.”

Jean blows air through his nose, feeling his temper - and guilt - rise. “Gee, and you never thought to mention it? Isn’t there something you should, like… be on for that kind of thing? Medication, maybe?”

“I didn’t want you to worry--”

“Too damn late for that,” he snaps, and then regrets it as he sees the flinch cross the other’s face. “I’ve always worried about you.”

The Salvage doesn’t say anything more, but he does let a couple more tears squeeze out, then more and more; Jean lets him sob into his ruined tee until he falls asleep. It doesn’t take the brunet more than a few minutes, then his breathing slows into a steady rhythm and his grip around Jean relaxes.

Jean shifts the brunet gently off his lap and happens to glance at the desk, where the other battery lies contently in its charging port, the glass front shattered. Jean turns off the other lights in the apartment and retrieves a toolbox from under his bed and, with the light of his desk lamp glowing under his covers, works on repairing the tiny device. It’s not terribly difficult, just a few wires loose - and he’s got some silicone glue and a tiny soldering pen from college, so he makes do. It feels a little bit like the time he’d taken an electrical engineering class and stayed up all night to finish his homework.

By the time the Salvage wakes up, the other eye is intact if a little scratched on the lens, and Jean is fast asleep.

 


	8. Close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why no your eyes do NOT deceive you, two chapters have indeed been added to the estimate total bringing it up to 14, which does indeed mean I will not have the entire thing finished by my personal deadline and no one is actually surprised
> 
> but woahhhhhhHHHH IT'S BEEN TWO WEEKS [LOOK](http://whitemana.tumblr.com/post/75968122251/i-really-like-lostlegendaeries-fic-render-and-i) [AT](http://geekydump.tumblr.com/post/76376062497/quick-marco-doodles-for-lostlegendaries-jeanmarco) [ALL](http://rainbowderpyhead.tumblr.com/post/76386532198/ugh-really-wanted-to-wait-till-i-got-a-proper) [THESE](http://myeverythingiscrying.tumblr.com/post/77084956295) [MARCOS](http://maggins.tumblr.com/post/77193803809) and theN [THESE](http://lostlegendaerie.tumblr.com/post/76008039114/pinkieking-submitted-i-want-to-draw-allthe) [GORGEOUS](http://thisismouseface.tumblr.com/post/76056623877/you-look-like-a-monster-commission-for) [SCENES](http://maggins.tumblr.com/post/76381802043) and a fUCKING [FANMIX](http://8tracks.com/broughsuppy/be-safe-in-the-big-city) gosh so many goodies also there's actually [my own playlist](http://lostlegendaerie.tumblr.com/post/75923440868/to-me-youre-beautiful-a-render-au-playlist) for the entirety of Render for the curious but just.
> 
> wow im out of words guys over 300 kudos, almost 150 bookmarks and 7k hits, what. what even. how is this happening im so. im so confused and thankful and just kind of rolling around on the floor like a baby harbor seal (complete with little BLEPT noises)
> 
> thank you thank you thank youuuuuuu <3

He really needs to get his license renewed, and then he really needs to see about getting a car, because this is getting  _ridiculous_. Jean rubs his knee with one hand as he leans against the wall of the nearest building, which happens to be a shopping boutique, and tries to calculate again how far he is from home; he took the bus here and didn’t pay enough attention to the scenery to be perfectly oriented with his surroundings. But it’s rather hard to think when his stomach keeps making loud, angry noises like it did throughout his job interview. At least now he has a job again, even though it was temporary and even though it means he’d be working in the same theatre as Connie and Sasha for a couple weeks.

Jean was sure he’d put down ‘ _mechanical engineer_ ’ and not just ‘ _construction_ ’ down as his skills, but he’d been added on to a crew of an unspecified amount of people in charge of helping to build and then tear down the set for _Blithe Spirit_. Oh well. At least now he’s done, and with another potential source of income on the way he doesn’t feel too bad about going to get something to eat.

A high pitched laugh breaks though his thoughts; he glances up to see two light-haired women exiting the store he’s leaning against, and he suspects he recognizes both of them. One of which was one he hadn’t seen in ages, but those eyes--

“Annie?”

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, and the shorter of the two women freezes as the other turns her poison green gaze on Jean. Hitch’s expression blanks for a moment, then she smiles fit to split her face in two - he swears he can actually see her back molars as she laughs again, cold as the air they breathe.

“Oh, Jean, what a delight it is to see you here! Annie,” and at this the other blond turns around; her eyes blue like ice and winter skies and broken promises, “look! It’s Jean. You know, the  _lovely_  classmate of yours that you keep talking about.”

Annie Leonhart doesn’t look like she’d aged a bit, not a wrinkle on her fair and almost exotically white skin. It almost makes her look unnatural, but the look she gives him for half a moment - one of something almost akin to fear if she wasn’t  _Annie_ , hard and beautiful as a diamond - is very, very human. It’s gone before he can blink, and she brushes platinum blonde hair out of her eyes.

“Kirstein,” she states.

This apparently isn’t the kind of reaction Hitch is looking for, and she whaps Jean lightly on the arm with an open, gloved hand like it’s his fault. He gives her an unimpressed look from narrowed golden eyes, but she’s all smiles again.

“Jean, sugar, you should come out to eat with us. I’m sure you two have a lot of catching up to do.”

“I’m not hungry,” he fibs - and it’s true, one good look at Annie’s expression is enough to make him lose his appetite - but his stomach chooses that moment to dramatically chime in with a growl. Jean suppresses the urge to laugh because the timing of his own body is bullshit ironic enough to be featured in some kind of terrible rom-sit-com. Except less romance and more endless bitching about finances.

“Jean, Annie, my darlings,” and Hitch traps them both in the loops of her arms, parading them in a line down the street that feels uncomfortably chummy, Wizard of Oz style, “I insist.”

Jean knows he could break free but he follows Annie’s example and let himself be led along. His version of ‘led along’ involves less poker facing then his high school classmate and more disgruntled and hungry noises, and also awkward attempts at small talk.

“So how do you two know each other, anyway? You don’t seem the type to really put up with-- well, most people in general,” he starts, more confident now that there’s a body in between him and the oddly cold Annie. In reply, Hitch squeezes them a little closer to her chest happily, her smile bright as sunshine. He folds his fingers more closely around her forearm on instinct, trying to avoid accidentally groping her with the back of his hand. He still notices the softness, however, and is suddenly grateful for the distraction that is his dire need for food.

“Well, Annie and I are coworkers; and on top of that, just the  _best_  of friends. Isn’t that right, my darling? After all, I owe her  _so much_.”

Hitch releases them just enough that Jean can stand upright again and herds them into the nearest coffee shop they can find. It’s not the same one as Jean went to last time; this one’s more modern, less personal, and smells like the kind of place you would expect that took its coffee black, piping hot, and very seriously.

He’s way more in the mood for a burger than anything, so he just orders a box of something called Protein and prays that it’s at least twenty percent meat as Hitch ushers them back into a little corner booth. Annie’s expression hasn’t changed the entire time and as soon as they sit down, her eyes lock on the table surface and stay there.

“Didn’t you get something, Annie?” Hitch asks, looking genuinely put out. The other blonde’s eyes flicker upwards for a moment.

“No.”

Hitch sighs heavily, some of her good humor fading; then she pounces on Jean both literally and metaphorically - she grabs his arm and hugs it close to her, grinning like a self-absorbed predator who’s effectively crippled their prey. And it’s true, actually - she has a wretched habit of taking him by surprise, but it just makes him want

to try to keep up. He raises a disdainful eyebrow in her direction.

“What, Hitch?”

“I’m just in a good mood today,” she beams at him, squeezing his arm before releasing it. “The sun’s out and you can almost see the sky through the smog. I hate commuting to the city - I’d rather stay out in the countryside.”

“You’re not from around here?”

She shrugs. “I’ve got my parents’ house, about an hour east of here on the edge of the suburbs. I like the peace and quiet.”

“You? Peace and quiet? Hitch, please,” he teases, drawn in by her good humor and matching the echo of her smile - at that same moment, they’re interrupted by the cashier calling their orders. On cue, Hitch springs to her feet and passes him a sly wink just before she scoots out of her chair and prances over to the counter to pick up their things.

He watches her go ,with maybe too long of a look at the thigh high boots and the long woolen coat, and snaps his attention back to Annie.

“So--” he starts, eager to engage in conversation while Hitch is gone. There’s only so many things he can talk about in front of her, after all.

Annie cuts him off with a glare. “How long have you been talking to Hitch?”

Her open aggression makes him recoil. “Whoa, first of all, I didn’t--”

“How long?”

Jean snorts, disgruntled at her attitude, but answers her anyway - old habits die hard, and he doubts she still carries her dad’s cuffs, but still. “Probably about a month by now, give or take a little bit. Are you going to tell me why you care?”

“It’s business,” Annie says - not softly, because nothing Annie does is ever really soft, but her voice is low and thrumming like a muffled bass line. “That’s all. Nothing personal.”

“Geez,” Jean drawls, “that doesn’t sound even a little suspicious.”

“Oh? What’s suspicious?”

Hitch returns with a boxed lunch of bread, fruit slices, half an egg and a few pots of pastes in a variety of different shades of beige, plus her own massive coffee. She shoves the box in Jean’s direction and inwardly, he weeps. Outwardly he tries dipping an apple slice into the lightest shade of beige, only to find out that it’s actually cheese flavored. Taken aback, he makes a mental note to try to discretely sniff each of the pastes before sampling them from now on.

“That you two are friends from business,” he cobbles together awkwardly, feeling both sets of female eyes on him. He tries for another paste but ends up dipping the apple in the cheese again, but it’s not quite as bad the second time around so he just rolls with it and eats as fast as politely possible. Hitch takes a swig that cannot possibly have been cool enough to be comfortable going down, but she smacks her lips anyway.

“Yeah, we don’t really seem the type to get along, do we? Especially after she spent most of college harping on me for cheating in my classes and generally being a big damn buzz kill. But circumstances brought us together, and we’ve been oh so close ever since.” Hitch heaves a sigh in Jean’s direction that’s bitter with black coffee, and he glances at Annie by instinct. Her ice-blue eyes are downcast, expression bored, and when he looks back at their mutual acquaintance her mouth is twisting in a pout.

“Yeah, Annie wasn’t much fun in high school,” Jean jokes carefully, verbally walking on ice and waiting for the stillness to shatter and drown him. But Hitch laughs and her expression softens, and he relaxes as well. Green eyes entrance him, making it much easier to forget their frosty companion and slip back into a back and forth with just Hitch.

“So?” Hitch presses again as he works on getting the last bit of nut butter out with a piece of pita bread, “what was she like in high school?”

“Stone cold,” he mumbles around a bite of food, glancing at Annie again. “Cop’s daughter. No one fucked with Annie, but she was-- well, she’s kind of like a pit bull.”

The green-eyed lady smirks. “Once she gets her teeth in something, she never lets go?”

“That, too. But more than that, she was loyal to her friends. Not that she had many,” and he shrugs. “But you didn’t mess with Annie’s friends.”

Instantly, he senses the change in atmosphere; Hitch sits back in her chair, eyes narrowing as her smile presses into a cruel, bitter line. Gone is the warmth, gone is the allure - she’s back to poison and he’s a little too close for comfort.

“Well, I guess people change, don’t they?” She casts her words on the table like loaded dice, flicking her eyes Annie’s way.

Something sparks between the two women, and Jean feels the ice shatter. He’s going to drown here, pinned down by two dangerous people - he swallows, gathering up his trash with slow, subtle movements as Hitch and Annie gaze at each other with pure danger in their eyes. He doesn’t have much of a frame of reference for the sudden flash of hatred, but as he studies Hitch for a moment longer he sees something that screams ‘really bad breakup.’

Jean opens his mouth once or twice like a fish gasping for air, but just decides he’s said enough and backs away. That… he wasn’t expecting, so best to just escape while he still can.

“It’s been lovely, ladies, but I’ve got to get home!” Shoving the trash in the waste bin, he steps quickly outside and braces his body for the long, frigid walk to the nearest bus station. Maybe if he walks fast enough he’ll get away from this situation - yet his efforts are punished by the chime of the cafe door behind him.

He didn’t really expect to escape that easily; but it’s Annie this time who has caught him, and her grip on his shoulder is cold as frost, hard as iron as she wrenches him around.

“Whatever you do,” she intones in a voice that brooks no argument, “don’t tell Hitch anything.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” he replies, mystified; she nods curtly and pushes him away, storming down the street with tense shoulders. And it’s only when she’s walking away that he realizes he should have said he didn’t know anything to tell her.

But he really gets the sense that he couldn’t hide anything from Annie Leonhart even if he tried.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s the day of Armin’s party, and it’s been quite a learning experience helping - and watching - the Salvage limp his way through the simple task of getting ready. He can’t submerge his body so he just wipes his skin down with a couple different washcloths; he also opted to wash his hair in the kitchen sink instead of using the dry shampoo he usually relied on. Jean offered to help him make sure all the soap got washed out of his hair and was declined, so instead Jean just sulked around in the living room until the shampoo was freed up.

He didn’t  _especially_  want the Salvage to barge into the bathroom in the middle of his shower, after all. Because of all the water vapor and stuff in the air, of course. Nothing else. Not that Jean’s fantasies tend to slip from one end of the Kinsey scale to the other, back and forth. Not that, if the Salvage interrupted him in the middle of such a recreational activity and teasingly offered to ‘help’ that he didn’t think he could stop himself from enthusiastically accepting. Not that he’s thought about that scenario more than once.

God, maybe next weekend he’ll go to the bars or something after work, go home with someone and fuck some of the frustration out of his body. Between Hitch and his Salvage, he’s having a hard time with it all.

Jean shivers as the cold air of the apartment hits his wet, bare skin; he dried off best as he could, but the towel he’s wrapped around his waist is pretty damp because of it and it doesn’t exactly make him feel any warmer.

“Hey,” and he pokes his head around the bedroom door to where the Salvage is standing in front of their cramped, shared closet, flipping through the hanging shirts like he’s shopping at a department store. “Bathroom’s free, if you still need it for something.”

“Thanks,” the brunet replies absently, not really turning around until Jean enters the room - and even then, the motion’s so brief and slight the freshly bleached blond is not sure if he really caught the movement or not. Jean has already laid his clothes out for the evening on his bed and he collects them now, dropping the towel to slide into his boxers as quickly as possible. At some point in time, the Salvage had started playing some of Jean’s music, so he towels his hair to the tune of an old rock ballad.

“Hey, Jean?” Amber eyes meet brown as the Salvage hesitates, still mostly naked and the fresh scar on his back healing over. “Do you think I should, you know… dress up for the party?”

“Beyond this?” Jean raises his own selection; dark brown slacks, a button up shirt and a tan sports coat. “I don’t think so. What do you mean specifically?”

“I mean, with the silicone sleeve. Kind of like what I did when we went to the supermarket with Armin.”

Jean considers this for a moment, standing still before another shiver reminds him that he’s still almost entirely naked and it’s pretty damn cool in his room.

“I don’t think you… have to or anything. I mean this,” and he gestures to the other, whose hair is still a little damp on the back of his neck and for a moment, he’s distracted by a drop that trails down the scarred spine. “This is the real you, right? I think our friends can handle that.”

The Salvage’s expression shifts, and he gives Jean another one of those soft, warm looks they keep passing each other. He’s not entirely sure he knows what it means, but it soothes a part of his heart he didn’t even know hurt. Jean returns the expression and some echo of the sentiment before turning away, lips still lingering in a faint smile as he reaches for the pile of clothes on his bed and steps into his pants.

He is just starting to hassle with his own shirt when he glances back at his companion. The Salvage’s brow is furrowed, tense with concentration as the plastic-tipped-metal fingers of his right hand slip uselessly over the buttons of his shirt. His left is shaking a little as he fumbles, and it’s this that catches Jean’s attention; and from there, an idle thought shifts into a full idea.

“Here,” and he bullies his way into the Salvage’s personal space, one knee on the bed as he leans across it, yanks on the other’s shirt to tug him closer.

“What--”

A hot blush that the blond can  _feel_  radiating heat flares across that freckled cheek. Jean flicks  his eyes down, fingers working at the bottom button on the Salvage’s shirt as he only struggles marginally

less than the previous set of hands had. But he still gets the first button done.

“Helping, you dumbass,” the blond teases, expression faltering as he messes up the next button, redoing it and slapping away the Salvage’s reach as he tries to interfere.

Jean can almost feel the vibrations of the brunet’s voice as he speaks, voice low. “I can do it, you know.”

“I know,” and he moves up to the next button with the faintest smirk on his face, eyes creeping upward with each successful buttoning.

“Then…” The Salvage trails off, waits for Jean to answer.

“I want to.”

Jean’s gaze hovers at the Salvage’s throat, watches the Adam’s apple bob as the other swallows, and he weighs his own feelings. He doesn’t know exactly… exactly what he’s feeling, but his instincts tell him to look up, so he does. Flicks his eyes first to meet the Salvage’s wide brown gaze. Tilts his chin up after a moment, still smirking.

They’re very close. Only part of the mattress separates them, and Jean’s fingers are still in the collar of the brunet’s shirt. His weight shifts, the springs under his knee bunching as he leans in a little closer. He glances over to the gleam of the repaired glowing eye, and finds that the sight doesn’t bother him anymore. Back across the seam, across the repaired bridge of the faintly freckled nose to the other eye; chocolate-dark but still so bright and alive and just…

It’s easier to lean in than it is to try to explain anything, so that’s what he does; because Jean always likes to take the path of least resistance but this time, at this exact moment, it’s not easier to run. His fingers slide along the other’s jaw, against flesh and metal and plastic alike, then his eyes flutter closed and he lets his lips graze the brunet’s mouth. It’s soft, it’s gentle; if kisses were like speeches this isn’t an earnest proclamation of love or a desperate, frantic cry of passion. It’s a sigh of relief.

And then--

And then a cluster of familiar notes hit Jean’s ears, fuzzy with static and the taste of time, and his world shatters around him.

Jean jumps backwards, stumbles out of the Salvage’s grasp and tries process his thoughts; his body is tense and he, he can’t meet that half gaze. He knows this song, all too well - every beat, every note, and the treacherous lyrics to come. And then, they come, right on cue.

“ _Of all the boys I’ve known and I’ve known some, before I first met you I was lonesome…_ ”

Because this is the song that killed Marco. The song his friend sent him maybe hours, maybe minutes before he died. The song he used to play at night, restless long dark hours where he obsessed over the smear of red over the pavement until he finally fell asleep only to wake up with tear stains on his pillow. Like… like he still does to this day, because he still misses Marco--

Marco is dead, and this isn’t--

They’re not--

He doesn’t love  _Marco_ , he loves his  _goddamn leftovers_.

_What kind of a_ **_monster_ ** _is he?_

Jean sucks in his breath through his nose, comes back to the present to a warm hand landing on his shoulder. The Salvage has gone from red to pale, and the blond pulls out of his grasp.

“Don’t--” he cuts himself off, forcing the emotions back down. No, not now, not yet; he has to be fine, plaster over the cracks even as the foundations are crumbling because he can’t stand to let anyone see. “I’m fine,” Jean amends, almost reaches for the still hovering hand and squeezes it. But he just swallows and turns away, throws on clothes like they’ll protect him, like they’ll be his armor in an upcoming battle. He’s fine. They’re fine.

Nothing is fine, but it has to be. For tonight, at least. And then tomorrow, and the day after that, and as many more days he can hold it together because not yet, not yet, he can’t face everything yet.

Behind him, the Salvage lets out a quiet breath, and when he speaks it’s like the first day all over again. Careful. Quiet. Not like Marco at all, and yet too much like him; a carbon-based copy.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” Jean bites out, thoughtless, then spits out another swear under his breath and corrects himself. “Shit. I mean… I’ll be fine. Just…”

There’s an undertone of desperation in his voice that he fights to correct; he needs to be fine, to be calm and strong because tonight he’ll be seeing his friends again and he has to prove himself strong. But Jean’s tone is steady when he completes his thought.

“I’m sorry… Bodt.”

The silence is heavy, and when he’s finally ready to look back at his companion, the Salvage has already turned away.

“I’m sorry, too,” comes the eventual reply, faint and exhausted. The blond grits his teeth, internally frustrated - no, this wasn’t what he wants, he didn’t mean to make that voice sound that broken, not ever again… But this is the way it has to be.

Jean and the Salvage dress in silence.

 

* * *

 

 

Sasha and Connie have volunteered to pick them up, and if Jean wasn’t already feeling antsy about the whole ordeal and life in general he certainly is now. He stops dead in the doorway of his apartment complex, the Salvage almost walking into his arms as he holds them out defensively.

“Oh, heeeeeeeell no,” he declares, drawing out the vowels long enough that his usually buried rural Trost accent bobs to the surface for a moment. “I am  _not_  riding in that, and neither is he.”

Connie’s standing on the sidewalk, arms crossed and a stern expression on his face. “Come on man, don’t diss my car. Retro is cool!” His eyes skim over Jean and behind him to Marco, where they land and widen. Sasha, looking rather chilly in her deep red dress, follows his gaze and just tilts her head to the side a bit, like a curious dog.

Of course. It’s the first time they’re seeing his roommate without his fake scars. Out of the corner of his eye he notices the Salvage shrink back, but Jean’s already got a rant prepared about the shady looking lump of metal and plastic hulking outside his apartment, so he launches into it with gusto.

“One,” and he holds up a finger for emphasis, even as he watches Sasha prance forward and drag the brunet out from behind him, her expression awed but unafraid, “that is not a car. Two, vintage refers to vehicles that don’t have duct tape on the front bumper. Three, and I’m repeating this for emphasis,  _heeeeeeell no_.”

The driver rolls his entire head for emphasis. “You already said you’d come, and if you don’t agree we’ll just kick you in the kneecaps and throw you in the trunk.” Connie smirks and wiggles his eyebrows.

Jean takes half a step back. “You wouldn’t,” he states, trying to make it sound like he doesn’t believe their threats - but he already knows he’s probably toast since he’s going up against two theatre kids and  _no one_  can outbluff a theatre kid. Sasha slams the car door, presumably having shoved the Salvage inside, and as Connie taps a button on the key fob the trunk pops open.

He doesn’t even really see Sasha until she’s sprinting the two steps of sidewalk between them. Jean’s not athletic in ways that will give him the starting power he needs to escape, so the only thing he can do is brace himself and catch her by the outstretched arms. Pivoting, he very nearly swings her into Connie as he tries to redirect her inertia, but the redhead suddenly wraps Jean’s arm behind his back and bullies him into the side of the car.

“Cuff ‘em, Springer,” she crows, the third most intimidating woman he’s ever seen in low heeled boots and a cocktail dress, and Jean cries uncle.

“Okay, okay, you freaks, I’m getting in the car. You’re gonna mess up your clothes. And my clothes.”

They shove him in and he almost stops, his knee on the seat and one arm still in the doorway as Sasha tries to jam him anyway, because he’s going to be sitting on the Salvage’s right side.

“It’s fine,” the other man says calmly, voice so soft Jean almost has to read his lips to understand the words.

He grits his teeth around his reply. “Got it.”

Buckling himself in carefully, he takes great pains to avoid the plastic and metal hand that’s resting, folded with the Salvage’s flesh and bone one on his dark blue lap. It matches his blazer, accented with silver buttons, and Jean almost wants to tell the Salvage it looks nice on him.

He almost wants to tell him a lot of things, actually, but almost wanting is not the same as actually wanting, and wanting is still very far from needing and doing. So Jean just turns his attention forward as Connie and Sasha pile into the front seats.

“Flame on!” roars their driver, cranking the ignition as the old gasoline engine snarls awake.

Remarkably, Connie’s a fairly safe driver, if he does tend to make turns that leave his passengers scrabbling for handholds; and it’s not until they’re safely out of town and on their way to Armin’s place in the countryside that the conversation turns to the elephant in the room. Or, to be perfectly accurate and explicit, the Salvage in the back seat.

“So, Marco,” and Sasha adjusts the mirror in the front seat as she applies some mascara in the middle of the bumpiest stretch of highway they’ve been on so far. Jean has no actual idea how she doesn’t jab herself in the eye with the sticky black wand. “How’s it feel to be a Salvage, anyway?”

The blond growls, deep and low, the defensive anger coming from God only knows where, but a robotic hand clamps over his wrist and squeezes. He’s thrown off by the motion enough to lose his reply, and snaps his mouth shut.

“Sasha!” Connie’s expression is equally concerned, but the Salvage speaks up first.

“It’s actually kind of cool in some ways. I mean, I’ve got all sorts of people spoiling me rotten and constantly fretting over me like I’m still a kid. And that’s always lots of fun, yeah?”

There’s a bitter note in the brunet’s voice, one that Jean wasn’t sure he’d heard before - but he can’t see the expression on the other’s face from this side, so he can’t tell for certain what he might be feeling. Once again, he’s thrown off by the other’s actions and once again, he sits back and waits. Observes.

Sasha pockets her mascara and folds the mirror back against the ceiling.

“Aww man, that sounds awesome. Hey, for tonight, do you wanna switch places, Marco?” She turns around in her seat and adopts a puppy like face. “Do you wanna take care of your precious little lower classman, just like old times?”

There’s a mechanical sound as the Salvage’s breath hitches in his throat, then he holds up a fist for her to knock her knuckles against.

“I’d… I’d like that a lot.”

Sasha obliges the motion, effectively diffusing the tense atmosphere, then places her palm over his hand. “Come on, everybody in!” she cheers!

“Not you, Connie,” Jean warns.

Sasha gives him an intense stare only enhanced by her slightly uneven eyeliner. “Yes, Connie! We’re all together again and this time, no one’s being left out!”

Jean sputters, feeling distinctly out of the loop and or disrespected. “But he’s driving!”

“But I’m also in!” and the driver’s voice almost cracks with his emotion and enthusiasm as he places his hand on top of the stack; and then Jean has no choice but to comply, knocking his shoulder against the Salvage’s as he leans forward. They all hold still for a moment, the joy and eagerness quickly bleeding away to confusion and then pain from trying to hold such an awkward pose on a country road.

“What do we break on?” Jean’s the one to bring up this rather important oversight, and Sasha bites her lips as she ponders.

“It’s gotta be something really… catchy.”

Connie fidgets, the car swerving slightly as he adjusts the one hand he’s got on the wheel. “Hurry, this is actually  _really_  uncomfortable.”

“Oooh, let’s do Circuit Freaks!” She almost bounces with enthusiasm. “It’s perfect! Jean’s an engineer, Connie and I are theatre tech, and Marco’s part robot! On the count of three; one, two--”

“Circuit Freaks,” echoes her cry, a symphony of various stages of excitement - ranging from Sasha to Jean as a ten to one scale - and as Connie retracts his arm and rolls his stiff shoulder, the car is filled with noise once more.

“We’re here!”

It’s been a few years since Jean’s been to Armin’s, but the house is still as lovely as he remembers. It’s a generous two story affair with a large wrap around porch that, from here, is lit with paper lanterns on strings that seem to float in midair. More of the soft lights drift alongside the sidewalk that leads from the driveway to the house, illuminating the pathway unobtrusively.

Connie parks in the first spot he can find and they make their way together around the mess of other vehicles to the house, Jean trailing a few steps behind the group as he feigns enjoying the scenery. And it is enjoyable, honestly, next to a large lakeshore dotted with the lights from other houses; but even after the chaos of the ride over he’s still preoccupied with the taste of the Salvage’s kiss still on his lips from almost an hour ago.

This evening is starting to have some rather awful parallels with another party with the same carload of people many years ago, and as soon as he gets in the door Jean heads for the kitchen for something to drink.

 


	9. Augment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaand there goes my buffer early update because i've had a hard week and i wanna cut y'all a break (and focus on the bonus for this weekend uhuhuhhu) and [hey look what kinds of things im actively cutting from canon](http://lostlegendaerie.tumblr.com/post/77512650442/a-taste-of-home-jeanmarco)
> 
> not as much fanstuff thIS TIME BUT SWEET LORD [PHIX DREW ME A THING](http://phixuscarus.tumblr.com/post/77597163392/i-did-a-thing-while-drafting-exam-questions-yoo) AND SOMEONE???? [COSPLAYED SALVAGE!MARCO??? ](http://khyeili.tumblr.com/post/77851190297/salvage-marco-from-lostlegendaeries-fic-render) AND WOW A [LOVELY FANMIX TOO](http://shslgoober.tumblr.com/post/77604691078/a-high-speed-collision-by-shenanigan-shslgoober) AJHDFKJS GUYS I ACTUALLY CAN NOT
> 
> ilu and im so v sorry ugh still not hella happy with this chapter but.... plot. (i should win an award for like, least actual jeanmarco in a jeanmarco fic this was not what i even intended good god)

The kitchen is, unfortunately, the center point of activity for the evening; instead of being able to escape, Jean is immediately wrapped up in a huge hug that sweeps him off his feet.

“Jean,” wheezes an obviously drunk blond as his body builder physique tries to make a puree out of Jean’s bones, “I can’t believe you came!”

“That’s what she said,” comes a taunting laugh, and Jean struggles free to glare at Connie as he passes by - then a heavy hand claps him on the back. It takes him a moment before the name and the face snap together in his mind, and Jean gives the muscular man a smile he’s not entirely sure he feels.

“Long time no see, Reiner. How’ve you been?”

“Great, great. Private security’s been a hell of a job, you know? The pay’s nice and I haven’t even seen action in almost a year.” Reiner rolls his shoulders. “How about you? Last I heard, you were working construction.”

“Man,  _fuck_  that job. Do yourself a favor and don’t bother with the entire rail system so long as Verman’s a supervisor. Asshole.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. Speaking of fucking,” and Reiner waves over an enormously tall, deep skinned brunet, “Bertle, c’mere. It’s Jean.”

Bertholt’s smile is warm and genuine as he offers Jean a hand to shake, the other holding a glass of wine. “Good to see you, Jean.”

The shorter blond accepts his gentle grip and gives it a firm shake, taking in his two old friends. There’s a subtle softness in both of their expressions, and Jean studies them for a while, his hand still clasped with Bertholt’s - then he feels the subtle metal band around one of Bertholt’s fingers and the pieces drift into place.

They’re… comfortable. Happy. Perfectly content, in the genuine, glowing sort of way which seeps out like sunshine through the curtains when Jean releases Bertholt’s hand and Reiner slings his arm around the brunet’s waist.

As soon as he recognizes this, however, a crippling pang of jealousy hits him. Because as he takes in the rest of the room - Sasha and Connie pulling the Salvage around without a trace of hesitance as Armin fights to keep them away from the food, the beautiful Mikasa exchanging words with Annie in the corner, and a collection of faces both old and new filling the rest of the space - he realizes how happy everyone else seems.

Now he remembers why he’d skipped the last few get-togethers; because Jean feels as though he’s the only one of his friends who’s still unsatisfied with his life. It’s a selfish thought, and he knows it, but still. It hurts to be left behind.

“Hey, is that…” Bertholt follows the sounds of Sasha and Connie’s loud voices, then his eyes widen. “Reiner, look--”

And then the room erupts into a thrilled chaos at the sight of the Salvage; he’s left at the edges as the crowd clusters around the figure until he can’t even make out the gleam of a robotic eye.

Jean wants to dive into the middle, to snap angrily at Reiner when

goes in for a bear hug and tell them _no, it’s not Marco_ , and _be gentle with him, he’s fragile and he bleeds_. But Jean feels excluded from the moment and retreats to join the strangers on the edges of the circle of his classmates. He watches the expressions when he catches a face in the mass of people - some confusion, some disbelief, pity, and Eren’s oddly enough is one marked by glistening eyes filled with tears. And then on the edge of the circle on the other side his eyes land on Annie’s face.

Her expression matches Jean’s from his first meeting with Marco - one of pure horror. Unnoticed by the others, she turns and vanishes from the kitchen, soundless despite her heels. He’s tempted to follow her, but a voice from his side and slightly below him cuts him off.

“Hey,” and Jean glances left and then down slightly to meet the cold eyes of a rather small, lithe looking gentleman. He’s taken aback slightly by the other’s stature, but any jokes about ‘ _how’s the weather down there_ ’ fizzle and die on his tongue at the cold professionalism in those eyes. “That’s your Salvage, isn’t it?”

His first reaction is to blush and stammer at the implications and he is left tongue tied for a moment, but then it clicks to him what the man actually means. “I… I own him, yes,” he concludes, uneasily.

The shorter man grunts again, then utters darkly, “what cunt said a kid like that wasn’t human? God damn,” he swears again for good measure, crossing his arms and returning to survey the scene in silence.

“Watch your cocksuckin’ mouth, Levi, we’re in polite company.” An arm suddenly draped over Jean’s other shoulder and an androgynous brunette grins down at him from behind their glasses, eyes sparkling. “Ignore him, he’s just upset that he’s still the smallest guy here. I’m Hanji, and you’re…”

“Jean. Jean Kirstein. Armin went to the same high school as I did, like most of the people here.” Jean scans the room again, checking to see if he’s right - and he is, for the most part, but it’s missing a few more people than the last time he was here. Historia, for one, is an absence he notices and misses dearly; even if they’d never been the closest of friends. It’s also gained a few more of the older, scholarly types, likely from Armin’s workplace. He adjusts his sports coat over his plain shirt self-consciously.

Hanji’s grin widens. “Ah, Armin’s such a bright little spark. I’m tryin’ to recruit him to Wings of Freedom; you’ve heard of us, right?”

“Again with the sales pitch,” mutters the short man, now

apparently named Levi, and he taps the toe of his boot against the floor.

“Please,” his friend - coworker? boss? Jean’s getting a whole slew of vibes from them - cuts him off, and gives Jean a playful dig in the ribs. “Ignore him. He’s just upset that he’s got a stick up his ass instead of a dick.”

Irritated, Levi snorts. Amused, Jean snorts. Levi glares at Jean and Hanji ignores them both.

“As I was saying, we’re from Wings of Freedom, a medical research firm with a focus on bio-synthetic robotic parts.” Their speech is calm and practiced, adding to the scripted feel, but those eyes are sparkling manically as Hanji speaks. “Instead of unnatural mechanical parts that  _really_ cost an arm or a leg to upkeep, our goal is create high-quality replacement parts that function exactly as biological ones.”

“What, like… lab grown livers or something?” Jean ventures, half-joking.

“One day, yeah,” and the brunette beams. “Ahhh, there will be rivers of blood and bones will grow like trees! Of course, we’re still just in the Salvage business but…”

Hanji winks at him, completely undeterred by his sceptic expression, and beside slash below him Levi mutters something under his breath. Jean, however, is speechless.

“… Rivers of--”

“Metaphorically, horse face.” Hanji concludes, slapping him on the lower back and just a few inches from being inappropriate. Their piece said, the brunet prances over to the Salvage, their black haired companion following close behind in boots that were certainly heeled. Jean gives a little disbelieving snort and heads to the crock pot of spiced cider for the drink he’s needed for weeks.

 

* * *

 

At dinner Jean found himself, predictably, between the Salvage and Sasha; thus he spent most of the meal trying to contain Sasha’s appetite, if not her enthusiasm, to a reasonable level. He gives up about fifteen minutes in when it’s evident that he can’t stop her, and that no one really minds if she grabs an extra helping or three in the bouts of laughter that rack the room.

He can’t blame her, honestly - the food is fantastic, a holiday spread of roasted ham and thinly sliced steak, fresh bread, crisp salads of both Caesar and fruit varieties, seasoned potatoes, a massive turkey pot pie and the promise of a four layer dark chocolate cake for dessert. He’d eat more if he wasn’t so miserable; but as things are, he passes his serving of bread to Sasha with some trite joke about ‘taking care of his little classmate.’

Even some of the adults - he can’t stop thinking of them in that way even though they’re probably only ten, maybe fifteen years his senior - are joining in on the merriment. The man named Levi still looks like he’s got an entire tree shoved up his ass; but since he’s seated next to Eren, Jean assumes he’s just got a headache from the noise as Eren tries to take part in every conversation at once.

It’s really the Salvage who’s the man of the hour, though, and Jean has to sit back and put up with Hanji on his inheritance’s left side, asking him ten thousand questions a minute about how his robotic lungs works, how he keeps his organs from spilling out, if he’s ever gotten pneumonia. None of the answers does Jean actually manage to hear, as the brunet has to turn around almost entirely to speak to the enthusiastic scientist.

So Jean ends up in a little ditch of silence; with nothing to do but eat he’s the first to finish his meal. He tries to look like he’s still picking at what’s left on his plate instead of doing what he’s actually doing, which is trying to get as drunk as possible as fast as possible on wine. Absently, he notices the empty place set down by Reiner and Bertholt that marks Annie’s absence.

Strange, he thinks. She’d left in such a hurry too.

A few glasses in, his attention slides inexorably back to his right, where his inheritance is still being drilled for information. Jean sets his hand in his chin, free hand swilling red around in the glass, and mentally compares Hanji to Hitch. Their enthusiasm seems to be on the same level, but of entirely different varieties - the one talking to his Salvage is all innocent, childlike joy with wide brown eyes behind comically thick glasses, while Hitch is cold and hard and green like gemstones, like poison, like cash. Plus, he trusts Armin’s judgment with the same sort of weight he gives to the laws of physics. If this was somebody not to trust, they’d not be here.

Jean’s reaching for the wine again, but just before he can touch it, the Salvage snatches it up and pours himself a glass. The blond pauses and scowls suspiciously at the back of the other’s head, then steals back the bottle as soon as it becomes available again. He’s distracted, momentarily, by the lingering warmth on the neck left by the brunet’s hand, and his heartbeat stumbles.

Then, he shrugs and pours himself a drink - or at least tries to. Instead, two little pinkish red droplets land at the bottom of the stemmed vessel and Jean throws the Salvage a dirty look. But he doesn’t seem to notice; in fact nobody does, and Jean sits back in his chair and waits for this all to be over.

More minutes tick by. He appropriately marinates in self-loathing, half-heartedly starts to sneak a game of solitaire on his phone but abandons it twice when the Salvage starts to turn back around. But never does anyone talk to him; more from apathy than guilt, eventually he pockets the device.

Jean springs at the opportunity when he notices a few empty places piling up - rising, he takes his own soiled dishes and catches Armin’s eye.

“Mind if I clear some of these away?”

“Sure, let me help.” Their host moves to rise, calling some attention to himself, but Jean waves him back down and takes Reiner’s plate as he moves towards freedom.

“It’s fine, I’ve got it.”

A faint clatter on the other side of the table alerts him to someone else helping clear the table - it’s Levi, looking utterly bored, and Jean’s a little taken aback to see him willing to help. Both loaded down with dishes, the two men manage to find the kitchen again.

Levi sets down his load in the sink, nodding to the dishwasher. “Can you rinse off the plates if I load them?”

“Sure,” Jean mutters, somewhat disappointed that he’s not alone - but Levi works in silence, without so much as a clink of a glass. It’s an improvement, at least, from the chaos of the dinner table but… not exactly what he wants. Story of his goddamn life, to be perfectly honest.

Therefore, the blond almost startles when Levi speaks.

“You seem possessive about your friend.” There’s no intonation to the deep, cold voice - but it still manages to convey a host of meaning. Most of the emotions seem condescending, but  _everything_  about Levi seems condescending. It makes him difficult to read, and Jean’s no scholar.

“Who, the Salvage? Nah,” Jean tries to play it off, “He seems as eager to talk to Handjob as they are to talk to him.”

Only once the words are out of his mouth does Jean realize he might have messed up Hanji’s name. Levi is giving him a long, unreadable look, and he squirms a bit internally.

But the black-haired man moves on to his next topic smoothly. “When was the last time he had a maintenance check?”

“I don’t-- I don’t know,” Jean defends. “I’ve only had him for a month or so. His dad worked for--”

Too late, he snaps his mouth shut as Levi’s gaze slides from his task to the other man’s face, eyes sharpening.

“Ah, that’s right. He’s Maes’ pet project. So he’s not that badly off after all. Still,” and he leans over once more to carefully slot the dishes into the machine, “that arm mechanization is uncanny as fuck. What a shame.”

There’s something about the plain, matter-of-fact way that Levi speaks that’s starting to set Jean off, make his eyebrows furrow as he rinses plates. He doesn’t like having strangers boss him around, especially when it comes to his inheritance.

Hitch’s initial greed for info on JaegerCorp springs back to the forefront of his mind. Levi’s considerably more cunning about the subject, already bringing the metaphorical blade to Jean’s neck. But once more, if Levi wants Jean’s Salvage he’s going to have to fight for him.

The dyed blond sets his tone to carefully, barely civil as he streams warm water down a plate. “It seems to work just fine, and that’s not really your business, is it?”

Levi’s eyes slide from the plate in his hands to Jean’s face, steely. “ _Seems_ is for crooked politicians trying to suck too many dicks at once. Just because it works doesn’t mean it’s good enough to be part of a living person; and in case you weren’t listening to  _Hanji_ , people like Bodt  _are_  my business.”

Jean matches his glare. “Let me guess,” and his tone pitches up to a mocking one, “if only I’ll consider donating this valuable JaegerCorp Salvage, I could do so much for humanity by letting you take him apart. Forget it,” he concludes, voice switching back to normal. “I’m a mechanical engineer. I can take care of him just fine, and I’m not interested in  _upgrading_  him.”

Levi is silent for a moment, body still but not tense. Jean pretends to ignore him, willing his shoulders back and body language confident - maybe if he projects confidence, this stranger will catch the hint and back the fuck up. He never should have come tonight.

But Levi drops a question as heavy and serious as a body bag at Jean’s feet. “Did you know that Eren’s father Augmented him?”

Jean drops the plate he’s washing in the sink - it gives a tremendous clatter, and he jumps back with a curse to see that he’s broken it into two rough pieces. It takes him another moment to catch back up to the present.

“He…” Jean feels any buzz he might have gotten from the wine evaporate. “He did what?”

As if on cue, Armin arrives in the kitchen with a fresh armload of dishes, brows furrowed.

“What’s wrong?” asks the host.

“Your friend just broke a plate,” remarks Levi as he elbows Jean away from the sink, rolling up his sleeves and taking over cleaning.

Jean, however, has bigger things to discuss, thoughts still scrabbling for traction. “What the  _fuck_ ,” he lowers his voice to a hiss as he glares down at the doctor, “happened to  _Eren?_ ”

“What? Eren’s not…” and Armin glances back over his shoulder, then slowly turns to the short man at the sink. “You told him, didn’t you?”

Levi doesn’t even twitch. The blond doctor’s eyes narrow fractionally; from anger or contemplation, it’s uncertain.

Jean intercepts the look, fighting the rising tone to his voice. “Oh, I’m sorry, was this another one of those  _big secrets_  I wasn’t supposed to know? Fuck,” and the thought leaves him breathless. “Did you-- did you know about Mae’s Salvage the whole time?”

“ _Levi_ ,” and Armin runs his fingers through his blond bangs. Levi doesn’t reply. The doctor’s blue eyes look faded, worn like old denim and they soften when they land on Jean.

“Jean, this-- I--” His jaw clenches, and he sighs before he tries again. “Short answer? No. We didn’t know about Marco. Maes and Grisha fought a couple months after Marco’s accident and they severed ties; Eren, Mikasa and I knew… nothing about him after that. We can only guess Maes found out about Eren, and decided to leave JaegerCorp because of it. I didn’t even know until partway through college, when Eren got really sick because his body was rejecting the latest part.”

The phrasing makes Jean sick; he swallows, his mouth dry and he leans against the nearest wall. He didn’t feel drunk before, but now he does in the bad sort of way; feels nauseous like he’s had too much to drink instead of not enough. He pictures Eren bleeding, sobbing, scared; Eren locked up in storage like his own Salvage; Eren brought to his knees by his own father. His lifelong image of Eren was shattering before his eyes, and he couldn’t help but wonder if Mikasa, too--

“Augmenting,” he starts, finally. “So, like… what would… what would he do, exactly?”

“Grisha’d swap out his son’s organs and joints on a whim, basically,” Levi chimes in, headed back into the dining room for more dishes- so casual, so flippant, and then he’s gone again leaving Armin to Jean.

Running his fingers through his dyed blond hair, Jean takes in a deep breath. Holds it. Lets it out again slowly. The knowledge is unsettling, makes him feel like even more of an ass during high school. God, he fucking hates himself, why didn’t he-- why didn’t he think about something like that? The scars, Mikasa’s concern, his ow creeping sense of Grisha’s ambition and determination - he should have known better. He’s so wrapped up in his own damn problems he’s not thought to look for anyone else’s.

“So then,” Jean concludes cautiously, “you… you know these Wings people because--”

Armin nods. “Because they’ve been keeping Eren alive - a lot of his body’s been replaced with mechanical parts. Levi’s their best surgeon and he’s here in case their bodies reject the most recent transplants.”

Jean closes his eyes. “Mother fuck.”

It’s… it’s a lot to take in, but he can do it. He feels a little sick, like the wine and the meat and everything else hates him as much as he hates himself and is trying to escape. So this was the true horror of JaegerCorp, then. How long did Eren suffer, alone, trapped and tormented by someone he should have been able to trust? How much did it cost Eren for the life he’d given to Jean’s own Salvage?

“Are you going to be all right?” Armin asks cautiously.

“I’ll be fine,” he assures the other. “Just… let me get another drink.”

The doctor pulls a bit of a face at that, but heads to the fridge and retrieves a couple more bottles of wine anyway.

“Let’s go rejoin the others, Jean.”

He can’t use the dishes as an excuse anymore, so he takes one of Armin’s bottles and retreats to his seat. Hanji and the Salvage are still deep in conversation, and he gets the feeling they didn’t even notice his absence. Sighing, mulling over more of his past, Jean pours himself a glass of wine and drinks deep.

He’s been blind for so long, it hurts to open his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 “What do you mean, you’re not fit to drive?”

“That was… kind of what we meant when we asked Marco to be the one taking care of us,” Sasha manages a straight face for all of ten seconds before she dissolves into helpless giggles, leaning almost double on Armin’s porch. Inside the door, Connie was muttering obscenities as he attempted to remove his coat from the rack.

Not that Jean was really one to talk, as he almost single handedly had drank the last bottle of wine. His tolerance is considerably higher than theirs, and he runs over their options as Connie, at last, manages to wrestle his coat away.

“We could call a taxi,” and Jean has to speak up a bit since his voice

seems to vanish into the night air, “or I could try to drive. I haven’t driven a car in like… a f--a few years. Months. Days probably.”

He mentally tries to remember how cars worked - was it the wide pedal that was the brake, or was it the tall one?

“Taxi it is,” and a hand suddenly reaches down the front of his pants. He hisses before fixing the freckled, half-faced culprit with his sternest possible stare.

“Yooo, Bodt, watch it.”

Sasha throws her arms in the air, waving a hand in the Salvage’s direction as she hoots a reprimand. “You gotta  _ask_  th’ cutie  _before_  you touch th’ booty!”

“Duly noted,” the brunet replies, stepping off the porch to make the call and nearly tripping on his way down. They’re actually all pretty tipsy, if Jean’s honest and pays attention to his surroundings. He yanks at the front of his suit jacket, puffing up his chest and trying to slouch against the porch wall as suavely as possible. Crisis, what crisis? He’s smashed and absolutely nothing ever is bothering him. He’s just chill. So chill. Frosty cold levels of chill.

Armin appears suddenly beside them all, looking annoyingly sober and serious. “You guys aren’t driving home, are you? Because I can house a few of you guys overnight if you’d like.”

Sasha squeals. “Could we really? Ohhhhh, Jean, you and Marco should stay over too, it’d be like a sleepover!”

“I have… work in the morning,” he gripes, starting to sober up a bit in the cold night air. “And I wanna get home. ‘Sides, Bodt’s already callin’ a taxi.”

Armin’s blue eyes skim across the scenery to where the Salvage is pacing just out of earshot, hints of metal gleaming in the moonlight as he speaks amicably into the phone.

“Fair enough. Still, Sasha, you and Connie should probably stay here for the night.” His suggestion was met with another cheer from the woman and a grumble from Connie, who’s been struggling with his coat the entire conversation. At this revelation, he turns and slinks back into the house. Jean smirks; after all that hassle, the dumbass had put the coat on inside out.

Armin holds the door open and gives Jean a long, curious look. Not one that’s especially expectant; just a calculating one. Measuring him up for something. It makes him feel like a commodity.

“What?” the taller man grunts.

The bait isn’t taken for a heartbeat or two. And then;

“Why don’t you call him Marco, like everyone else?”

Jean shifts his weight from foot to foot, looks out to the driveway where the Salvage is still on the phone, then at his feet in his slightly scuffed dress shoes.

“I dunno.”

“Come on, Jean. I know you’ve got a reason. Just tell me. “ When silence meets his question, the pediatrician tries again. “Is it because you still don’t think of him as a true person--”

“No! I mean,” he drops his voice down to a husky whisper, suddenly conscious of the brunet not thirty feet away, “I just… I don’t really know who he is anymore. If he’s really Marco or if he’s someone new.”

“Why does that matter?”

If he’d been sober, Jean would be backing out of the conversation angrily - but since he’s not, he doesn’t see a reason not to spill his innermost thoughts to the natural blonde. “Because I didn’t-- cause I couldn’t love Marco in that way, but I think I might be able love… whoever this is. And it.”

He gestures to the subject, who suddenly looks very small and alone in the moonlit dark. “I dunno, it kinda feels like I’m cheating Marco somehow if I go for some half-human wearing his face.”

Armin is very quiet for a very long minute, and they both stare out across the lawn where the Salvage is pacing, his left hand shoved into the pocket of his jacket as his other holds the phone.

“After a certain point,” Armin says, very slowly and clearly, “I don’t think we owe the dead anything. We should always honor their memory, but we shouldn’t let their memory hold us down. Do you get what I’m saying, Jean?”

Jean mulls this over carefully, or as carefully as he can manage. Then, in an equally somber tone, he asks, “so basically what you’re saying,” and he points briefly in the Salvage’s direction, “is that I should go ahead and tap that ass.”

“Oh,  _god_ , Jean.”

“Well, are you?”

In reply, Armin turns around and vanishes inside - the lock screeching into place moments later. Jean stares at the surface in outrage, then tries to pop the collar on his sports jacket and breathe into it. It’s not cold, not really, just on the chilly side and not as chill as Jean himself is. But maybe if Armin sees them shivering out here he’ll let them back in. Maybe feed them some more, too; send them home some leftovers to save the Salvage any effort in cooking.

The stairs creak slightly as the Salvage rejoins him on the porch, his cheek red from the cold and the wine. “Our ride should be here in a few minutes, by the way. I think I gave them the right address.”

“I trust you,” he replies, nestling down into the fabric of his sports coat and hugging himself tightly. “You’re good at taking care of people, you know. Or at least me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” and he yawns contentedly, wine loosening his tongue and helping him forget the reason he’d avoided the other all evening. “You’re an excellent cook and just basically… good. It’s really nice to have someone to come home to again, after all this time.”

“Is it now? I’m glad,” and he steps forward until he’s leaning sideways on the wall beside Jean, watching him with one warm, dark eye while the other flickers like blue firelight. “Can I ask you something?”

The blond shrugs. “You can try. I’m a little drunk. Just a lil’ though.”

A faint chuckle greets that statement, but still the Salvage hesitates for a moment. There’s not much warmth coming from the seventy-percent-human body beside him, but Jean wants to lean a little closer anyway. And he knows exactly why, which is why he doesn’t move; just closes his eyes for a moment and wishes he could go back to not knowing.

“Did you cry at the memorial service?”

He doesn’t have to ask the Salvage whose memorial service, even if he’s had to go to a few more in his short life than he wanted to. So instead he takes in a long, slow breath through his nose to stall for time. It’s a complicated subject, but living or dead, he owes Marco this much.

“No,” he answers honestly. “I didn’t.”

The reply takes a while to come as well, and is so soft he hardly hears it. “I see.” The Salvage’s eye is downcast, and he’s turning away; Jean feels a flare of panic cut through the buzz of the wine. No, wait, that wasn’t what he’s supposed to do. Not anymore. Not again.

“I cried every night before I fell asleep for a week, though. If it matters,” he adds as an awkward sort of afterthought, shifting his weight. “You know, I-- I really don’t like cryin’ in front of people. That’s-- that’s what I meant, is all. I just hate crying.”

“That’s true.” The Salvage states, his tone blank and even before it slips back into gentle honesty. “I remember that about you.”

They’re quiet, enjoying the faint noises of the wind in the branches of the trees and through the crisp leaves, the distant whispering of the lake and the sound of faint conversation inside. It’s peaceful, and Jean sighs before he breaks the silence.

“Bodt?”

His companion turns back to Jean. “Yeah?”

“The memorial, uh…” He shifts his weight against the wall. “It was a really good one. Well, in the way memorials can be good. So I think it was the kind of memorial that-- that you would have wanted.”

The Salvage takes in a little breath, then smiles. “Thanks, Jean.”

Jean bites his tongue, trying to feel out the sensation of calling the Salvage by the same name of his old friend. It fits but not quite, and something in the back of his mind or the bottom of his heart is begging him, not yet. So he doesn’t say anything else, and if the Salvage leans in at that exact moment he misses it entirely as he steps away from the wall.

Nope, he didn’t see anything, nope, not at all; but his timing’s good, since as he trots down the stairs on slightly disobedient feet he can just make out headlights approaching from the end of the driveway.

“Oh, hey, look, our taxi is here. Thank god. Now I can go home and take off these stupid clothes. Come on, Bodt,” he hollers over his shoulder, too late noticing the fact that the brunet is literally two steps behind him. The other doesn’t seem too bothered, though, and just nudges Jean forward with his right hand.

“Let’s get home already.”

They pile into the backseat together, and only then does Jean recognize the taxi driver from their last ride together. He wonders, ridiculously, if they’re still kitty litter in the trunk of the car. “It’s you again.”

The rugged blond smirks at them in the backseat mirror. “Yeah, kid. Your buddy specifically asked for me - seems I never finished my story about the middle school friends, did I?”

“No, you didn’t,” and the Salvage passes the driver a gentle smile as Jean forks over the cash. “They were meeting at the shopping mall, remember?”

“Oh, yeah. All right, so they each got dragged there by their friends…”

Jean tunes out the rest of the conversation, his cheek resting on the back of the seats as he does his best to slouch himself into a comfortable position. Roads and scenery fly by outside, blurring into stripes of deep blue like the Salvage’s suit coat, and he slips into a contented, dreamlike state. He’s drunk, he’s had a long night and if he doesn’t drink a ton of water he’s going to have a killer headache tomorrow. But if he can just--

\-- just not think for just a little while longer--

He can pretend that everything is going to be fine.

 


	10. Chill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> publishing a day early because Red Beanie Thursday??? ~~am i allowed to participate if i haven't read forget-me-not?~~ anD 420 AND PHIX'S BIRTHDAY. happy birthday phix you are a godsend everyone i fucking mean it.
> 
> and as always [some](http://hdotk.tumblr.com/post/80186704922/salvage-you-mean-like-one-of-those-hybrids) [hella](http://rainbowderpyhead.tumblr.com/post/79438563672/done-redrawn-and-colored-with-a-tablet-d) [great](http://fuusunshine.tumblr.com/post/79436056959/render-holy-crap-its-fantasmic-i-have-this) [art](http://maggins.tumblr.com/post/79406345817) [including](http://angels-in-your-angles.tumblr.com/post/78840759594/shout-out-to-render-for-being-the-first-fic-to) [some](http://deadfreckledboys.tumblr.com/post/78886229238/happy-birthday-lostlegendaerie-enjoy-sad) [birthday](http://artofvulpes.tumblr.com/post/78868734891/render-really-hurts-me-poor-sweet-marco-happy) [fanart](http://angels-in-your-angles.tumblr.com/post/78919733102/ahhhhh-a-little-late-but-uh-for), a [playlist](http://arminearlelt.tumblr.com/post/79125180129/robots-need-love-too-a-render-fanmix-for-saros) and a [sketch video??](http://elocinaqui.tumblr.com/post/79538657565/my-goal-is-to-draw-something-everyday-in-my) ugh you guys are the best i lay down and sob helplessly
> 
> i continue to be extremely moved and blessed by all your support and you guys are so freaking gr8 im just. i am just. continually so pleased with all your feedback and i hope!! the end result fulfills all your expectations and then some.

Jean slinks into the workshop, which is mostly dark and empty - a massive, warehouse-like space with high ceilings and blurry shapes of previous props sprinkled around tables and clusters of power equipment. The door clicks behind him, echoing softly. Feeling out of place, he hovers near the entryway until he spots light emanating from an office-like space on the far side. He can’t make out anything inside, but it seems like his best bet so he approaches, treading carefully on dark-spattered concrete.

There’s not an actual door, so he just knocks on the wall to get the attention of a figure seated at a cluttered desk. Their head jerks up, eyes a misty blue and hair so light it reminds him of Annie. But this blond’s a different, delicate kind of intimidating, and Jean stands a little straighter under that sky-like gaze.

“Jean Kirstein, here to help with the set construction for Blithe Spirit?”

“Ah, the temp worker. Call me Nanaba.” They rise, sylph like, and offer him a firm handshake before flipping a switch and flooding the massive workshop with light. Illuminated, it’s still intimidating - especially now that he can make out individual shapes, like the mannequin hanging by its neck along the wall sandwiched by massive reproductions of classic artwork. It’s a hodge-podge of past work above, and at floor level an array of tools and saws and objects ping memories from his college years in the back of Jean’s mind.

“I’ve got the blueprints whenever you’re ready to start. We’ll need six bookcases - it’s a box set with Hollywood flat walls, and Daz managed to get one of them done before he cut his hand.”

Jean, who’s been following Nanaba as they walked out of the office and onto the workshop floor, nearly stops dead in his tracks.

“I’m… sorry, his hand?”

“Yes. On that saw,” and Nanaba nodded towards an intimidating structure some distance away that Jean only vaguely remembered seeing in some of his old engineering classes. “I trust you won’t be so careless?”

“Uh-- Of course not.”

Jean starts taking mental photographs for equipment to look up later on the internet. They keep walking, as Nanaba drones on about some of the history of their past productions and more nonsense about the script and the mood of the production. And he’s aware he should be focusing but he’s preoccupied with the thought of those spinning toothed blades biting into his hand and--

“… You’re rather quiet.”

The man jolts out of his thoughts, meeting her gaze. “Oh, sorry. It’s still a little…”

He glances at the saw, pictures this poor Daz character losing limbs. It galls him to say something now, but he’s not willing to literally risk life and limb for this job when he’d still be okay financially to be unemployed for another year, no stress.

“… New to me. This ain’t exactly my kind of construction,” he finishes with a grimace. Nanaba’s eyebrows narrow. “I mean, like-- I can learn. I’m good with my hands. But I’m a… my construction job wasn’t running, you know.  _These_  kinds of machines.”

Nanaba crosses their arms and continues to study him in silence.

Compulsively, he keeps talking. “Look, I-- I really need this job, and I don’t know why the employment agency just seems to have zeroed in on my ‘construction’ job but… I don’t want to lose fingers because I haven’t worked with a,” and he glances back at the machine, “fuck, with a  _band saw_  for like five years.”

“There wasn’t a mix up.”

“And I-- sorry, what?”

Nanaba shrugs slightly. “There wasn’t a mix-up. You were a personal recommendation from a couple of your old friends, and I read through your file myself. I was curious if you’d own up to your own inexperience.”

“If I hadn’t?” He frowns.

The androgyne lifts one suited shoulder in a shrug. “I would have just had Luke or Dita watch you extra close the first time you used a saw.” At his silence, Nanaba passes a calm smile his way. “Kidding. Go grab yourself some goggles, Jean. Work won’t start until everyone else gets here, so I’ll just give you a tour of the shop.”

He obeys with little more than a muttered “Yes, boss,” and one last wary look at the band saw. Was that… really blood he could just make out on the blade?

No. Surely not.

Jean doesn’t take Nanaba’s offer to try working the saw by himself, however.

A few minutes later, as Jean’s trying to wipe some of the accumulating nervous sweat from the nosepiece of his goggles, two more men enter the shop laughing with each other. One’s a tall ginger with his hair tied back in a tiny spurt of a ponytail; the other’s wearing a paint-spattered bandanna on his head.

“Luke,” and the ginger’s attention snaps to Nanaba like a trained soldier. “Dita,” and his companion follows suit, more laid back in his reaction. “This is your new trainee, Jean.”

“Hey, kid,” and Dita grins, approaching to give Jean a slightly damp handshake - neither says anything, but the blond wipes his hand on his pants subtly afterwards. “Nice to have some fresh blood around this place, right?”

Jean hopes he doesn’t blanch too visibly.

Luke is a little more reserved in his greeting and seems a little too eager to follow Nanaba to his own little project on the far side of the workshop. The blond’s curiosity is dispelled with Dita claps him on the shoulder to get his attention.

“C’mon kid, I know our boss is a lovely sight but you gotta focus on me. Else you’ll end up like Daz and jerking off with your non-dominant hand.”

The crass joke doesn’t faze him, but he does glance away with haste. “So you actually… that happened? Someone  _actually_  lost their fingers on equipment here?”

Dita laughs, an easy and causal sound. “Just pay attention to what I tell ya, Undercut.”

 

* * *

 

 At the end of his first day, Jean comes home sore and smelling like freshly sanded wood, which sounds a lot nicer than it actually is. In reality, freshly sanded wood smells a lot more like the sander involved than it smells like the wood itself, and the particular sander he’s been using all day is probably older than Jean and smells vaguely like a tire fire. As such, he kicks off his shoes, tosses his coat off and wants to just somehow shower in his sleep. Combining rest with becoming clean is an innovation sorely needed in the world. Maybe he’ll try to make one himself - base it off a car wash mixed with a CAT scan machine. After all, he is an engineer and what do engineers do? Solve problems.

But his dreams cannot yet be a reality, and as he slouches into his bedroom he just barely remembers to check the Salvage’s bed before flipping on the light.

The brunet is asleep, breathing even and slow, the lights in his battery slash eye glowing steadily. Jean pads his way through the door, eyes wide as he strains to see in the dark, and tries to rustle through the clothes in their shared closet as silently as possible.

Yet for all his effort, it appears to be for nothing and the Salvage stirs.

“… Jean?” he asks, in a voice husky with sleep. Sleep he probably sorely needed.

The blond winces, mentally cursing his ineptitude and replies with a poorly phrased joke. “Nope, it’s a burglar. Excuse me while I raid this house of valuables. Oops, there’s actually nothing worth stealing.”

“Mmm, very funny.”

Shadows shift across the room as the Salvage sits up, movement still a little slow. Jean hesitates in stripping, holding his pajamas awkwardly in hand as he waits. The silence between them holds.

“Hanji gave me their number. I’d like to keep in touch with them--” The brunet cuts himself off, starts the statement again. “Sorry, they as in Wings of Freedom, not just Hanji.”

Jean wants to scowl, but instead he crosses his arms and leans against the wall, squinting into the light of the Salvage’s eye and unable to really make out the expression on the other side of the brunet’s face.

“Okay,” he says at length, tone questioning, his query left unvoiced - why?

The Salvage picks up on it anyway. “In case something-- something were to happen to me, something that you couldn’t fix… can you take me there?”

Jean shifts his weight from one foot to the other, scowl darkening. It’s not-- well, it’s not  _just_  that he’s not especially liked what he’s seen of the organization slash research facility slash crazy creepy modern day Frankenstein’s lab, but…

 _‘…something that you couldn’t fix…_ ’

It sticks to his skin like chewing gum; picking at it only made it hurt, but he couldn’t brush it aside. The phrase comes loaded with choking implications, that there are things that Jean can’t do, and that one day his Salvage will probably break for good and leave him with nothing and no one. In any case, his only reply is;

“If that’s what you want.”

His pride is only further injured by the sound of the Salvage’s heavy sigh of relief. Jean clicks his tongue, glances to the side uncomfortably.

“What, did you think I’d say no? God, give me some credit here. I don’t-- I don’t mean to just treat you like an object. You’re--” Too late and too quick, he cuts himself off, backtracks again. “You’ve got feelings and preferences just like anyone else. It’s fine, even if I disagree with what you want. But just… say something, okay?”

There’s another silence, and Jean really wishes he could make out the Salvage’s expression. After a few long, heavy seconds, he turns to go and, predictably, is stopped in his tracks by one last request.

“I want a phone.”

Jean hovers in the doorway mid step, then leans back and nods at the computer.

“Then get one. I should still be logged in - find a model you like online, and if you’d want to I can see about adding you onto my carrier.”

“Th-- thank you,” comes the stammered reply, and Jean just grunts and heads to the shower.

 

* * *

 

 ”Can’t you just fix the damn thing instead of waiting for replacement parts?” Jean’s already dressed and ready to leave as he bickers into his head set, pulling his shoes on and yanking the laces painfully tight. It’s a few mornings into his new job, and both him and the Salvage had woken up to a broken heater. The blond has been coming home later than he’s used to, due to the distance between his new job and his apartment, and mixing this with less sleep’s put him in an especially foul mood.

 _“We’re sorry for the inconvenience,”_  the message relays back to him, _”but the building’s heater cannot be repaired until the proper parts arrive. Please give us one to two days to fix this problem. Thank you for you pati--”_

With a muttered “shit!” Jean hangs up the phone, moodily accepting the toast laid in front on him on the coffee table.

Jean wants to-- to say something about the weather, about his week, about anything. But something broke between them in the last few days. Instead, all he can do is offer some terrible attempt at concern as he chows down breakfast on the couch, a half seat away as the Salvage rejoins him.

“Want me to try to get, like… a space heater?” he offers. The Salvage blinks. Belatedly, Jean realizes this is the first time he’s actually tried to start a conversation with his roommate since the party, and he probably should have picked something a bit less anti-climactic. Trying to defuse the non-situation, he tries to take a nonchalant bite of toast and very nearly misses his mouth.

“No, don’t bother,” the Salvage eventually manages. “I’m fine.” He turns back to his own cup or tea and, despite only having one eye and therefore a loss of depth perception, manages to not look like a moron and drinks carefully.

“Does it hurt?”

“Hmm?”

Jean gestures to his left side, traces an imaginary seam down the front of his chest. The Salvage stares at him for another long moment, like he’s trying to read a cypher or something on Jean’s face. It’s unsettling, somewhat, but the blond can’t tell if he wants the other man to be able to solve the puzzle or not.

Eventually, he answers. “Yeah, it stings. The metal parts get cold easily, and in the places where the bolts that attach my right side to my bones hurts really badly. It’s not often it happens, though. It was really bad for a couple days when I was locked in storage, though.”

The blond’s scowl is instantaneous, reflexive.

“Just because it’s ‘ _not as bad as it could be_ ,’” he mocks, voice rising in pitch as he imitates the Salvage’s smoother, lilting tones, “doesn’t mean it’s okay. What can I do to help?”

It’s the wrong answer, apparently, because the Salvage recoils. Flinches. Subtly increases the distance between their bodies and takes another long drink of tea, hair still a mess and a growing darkness under his left eye.

“Nothing.”

Anger flashes through the blond’s body, and he knows his companion notices. Knows that Jean’s the cause of that second withdrawal, as he pulls his legs closer to the couch and avoids amber eyes.

But it’s not the right time, not quite yet. Jean has to get to work, after all, and he chokes down his toast in bitter silence.

“Suit yourself, Bodt.” He rises, shoves his plate in the sink, and heads out the door all in short succession.

 

* * *

 

 “Oh, you’re goin’ home already?”

From the railing above the stage, Connie and Sasha peer down at him from such a distance he has to squint to even make them out. So he cups his hands around his mouth and calls up into the rafters. “Yeah, we’re just waitin’ for the plaster to cure so Nanaba’s sending me home early.”

“Lucky,” whines Sasha, leaning forward so far that she nearly over-balnces - but a coworker lunges for her with an uneven step, and Jean rolls his eyes. It’s the theatre’s Salvage, a fairly optimistic kid with fully robotic legs and an uncanny confidence walking on the rails due to magnets on his feet. They don’t speak much, but he instinctively likes the young technician.

“Hey, Thomas, you could probably just let her drop,” Jean calls up to the Salvage, and the other blond’s body language goes rigid with shock. Moments later, Connie and Sasha are sprinting towards the far end of the stage, and he can hear them thundering down the stairs to say goodbye. They’d picked up the habit on the first day, hanging off him for painkillers from their wretched hangovers after Armin’s party and then continuing to heckle him at every possible break.

But he doesn’t expect the sudden taste of polyester in his mouth as Connie yanks a beanie over his entire head.

“Yo,” he yelps into the fabric, “what the fuck?”

“Hey, Sasha, don’tcha think red’s really his color?”

“Keep your fucking clothes to yourself, Connie,” Jean rips off the offending garment and flings it back at the shorter man.

“Dickmuncher,” Connie leers at him, cradling the fuzzy hat to his chest as Jean tries to revive his hairstyle.

Sasha steps between them, throwing her arms around Jean’s neck in the overly-physical affectionate gesture that, unfortunately, has become familiar. “We’re just worried you’re gonna be too cold with that silly haircut!”

“I’m fine,” he assures her, yanking at her thick ponytail until she releases him with a yip. “Or I will be once I get something to drink. See you guys tomorrow.”

“Stay warm, Jean!” Thomas hails him from the rafters, and the other two ‘Circuit Freaks’ head back to their job, still bickering with each other.

Jean feels a little sting of guilt after rejecting the hat; he almost wants to go back and grab it, but he’s--

He’s just so  _tired_ , is all. He’s not been sleeping well; between nightmares of blood and fire haunting him again, and the nights when the Salvage wakes him up with phone calls at obscure hours, he’s worn. It’s making him short with the brunet as well, which only widens the gulf that’s growing between them as Jean tries so hard to both reach out and let go. He doesn’t trust Hanji, with their maniacal ideals. He trusts Levi even less, and while he trusts Eren it hurts most of all to hear the Salvage speaking with their Augmented friend. They’re part of a world that he doesn’t understand, doesn’t have a right to assume to know, and he wants to respect that. But all he feels is jealousy. All he hears is “not good enough.” All he knows is loneliness again.

The cold outside is milder than it’s been before - but he can taste the hint of winter in the back of his throat when he breathes through his mouth. It should taste like death, like frost, like an endless snow-laden sleep but it just tastes sharp. It cuts him. It gives him an idea.

Ten minutes and a few back-tracked turns later, Jean finds himself thumbing through his wallet outside a bar, making sure he can pay for the cover charge. It’s something he’s not worried about for ages, not done for even longer - and then he’s sucked into the queue of people waiting to get into the bar. He still smells a little like sawdust and his winter coat is bulky enough he feels like he’s in the way, but when he passes off the wrinkled bills to the man at the door Jean’s steps feel… lighter, somehow. The promise of release, of alcohol is something he’s missed since Armin’s party and before; and he splurges on a small glass of Irish Creme while he’s still sober enough to appreciate a good drink.

The creamy booze coats his tongue, rich aftertaste lingering in his mouth and he takes another drink as his eyes skim around the establishment. It’s a dark, themed pub - faintly Western in style, with wood paneling that looks like it might be a little on the sticky side - and the faint smell of smoke isn’t enough to make him choke.

But the slight figure seated at a table alone does.

Jean approaches Hitch carefully, tries to soften his booted steps but it’s no use; her head shoots up anyway, green eyes hard until they meet his and she softens.

“Hey, stranger,” she teases, though her voice is still too quiet and subdued to be like her usual self. He helps himself to the seat across from hers in the tiny, secluded booth, and takes another drink.

“No Annie this time?”

“Too much of a buzzkill,” Hitch relates, and takes a pull from a cigarette he hadn’t noticed. Her eyelids flutter half closed as she gazes at the table, scratching at the surface with a fingernail. “Not like I’m really feeling this tonight, anyway.”

“Hard week?” he prompts, taking another long drink. She laughs, a faint wheezy sound.

“Something like that, yeah. Boss is crawling up my ass over work related stuff again - he spends so much time up there, he may as well set up a permanent lodging.”

If he was a little more tipsy, maybe he would have cracked a joke off that; but as he isn’t he just kind of forces a slight, sympathetic smile as he takes his last sip of crème liquor.

Hitch waves down the nearest waitress, flashing her credit card, and Jean rolls his eyes. “No use complaining about you payin’ for my drinks, huh?”

“Please. Allow me the comfort of wasting a bit more of Kingsguard’s money.” She smiles thinly. His phone goes off, a gentle purr against his pocket. He pulls out the minute device, checks the screen.

 

 **From: House Bodt [6:12]**  
_You’re not home yet, everything all right?_

 

He turns off his phone.

Once his second drink arrives, Jean takes smaller sips; savoring the beverage. “Your tune’s changed quite a bit since the last time we hung out together. What happened to championing the noble cause so much? Care a little less about Salvages, now?”

Her eyes stay downcast for one moment too long; but when she looks up she shrugs. “What about you? It’s my _job_ to care about them. Can’t say the same for you. Do you care?”

“Yeah,” he hears himself state. “I care.”

Hitch closes her eyes and takes another long, deep drag of her cigarette.

“What a shame,” she murmurs, like an afterthought; then when her eyes snap back open they’re brilliant and sharp again.

“So, Jean,” and Hitch crosses her legs under the table, toe of one shoe rubbing against the outside of his calf, “tell me about your day.”

Time passes like that, drink after drink - they both end up having a few shots of tequila, though Hitch takes her one like a champ and he coughs on his third - and shoot the breeze in their own little corner of the bar. It’s hazy, refreshing, nice to be irresponsible for a few hours and trade horror stories about college roommates and gross apartments. She smokes, blowing into the purification vent above their heads, and Jean lets himself get irresponsibly drunk.

He feels content, relaxed. A trade off, the last working part of his mind guesses, for the fact that he can’t feel the back of his throat. He’s numb in some places, live-wire bright in others, and it’s such a welcome break that he throws any concerns about his Salvage out the metaphorical window.

Around his fourth real drink he notices the twist of Hitch’s mouth - the way her lips form into a glossy pout around even white teeth. He notices the tilt to her chin, the flutter of her eyelashes, the rub of her foot against his shin under the table.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” she asks, and he swallows. Heart flutters. It’s been too long.

“Your place?”

“Mmm, your’s is closer,” she offers - and he remembers, suddenly, the dead device in his pocket and the matching one waiting for him at home. The one he kissed. The one he still wants to kiss.

He wants to protest, but Hitch is already rising, taking him by the arm and dragging him out the backdoor. The chill of the air hits him, makes him shiver and sober up just enough to catch the flash of white skin between her tall, tall socks and her long pea coat. So pale and unmarked, either by scars or freckles.

He feels--

Her heels click on the sidewalk as she leads him to the parking garage, and he catches up with Hitch enough to bury his nose in her hair. She smells clean and starkly female, it makes his hands shake; and she gasps as he traces the top of one of her stockings with his fingers.

“Impatient, aren’t we?” she laughs hoarsely.

Headlights flash a few cars away as a slick deep green SUV chirps in reply to Hitch’s key fob, then he’s grabbing her, pulling her up and around him. Long, thin legs wrap around his waist as he carries her those last few feet and slams her up against the car door, lips seeking her mouth. She tastes cold, like ice and smoke and city smog, and she scratches his neck with her nails as she kisses him back feverishly. It’s torture. It’s bliss. It’s an escape.

He doesn’t think about anything for those few, too short minutes; not until they’ve broken apart to gasp for air and she’s panting something about the backseat. She slides down his body until her feet hit the pavement, then she’s pushing him in through the open door of the car. His heels dig into the upholstery as he scoots back just enough to make enough room for Hitch, then she closes the door and they’re plunged into an isolated cold darkness.

Every part of her skin he can reach, which isn’t much, feels so soft and delicate it’s unnerving; he wonders if she’ll bruise later when his thumbs dig into her upper thighs, pulling her into his lap. Wonders if he likes the thought or not, and kisses her again.

Wonders if the Salvage--

No. No more. Just for tonight, he won’t consider anything but the moment as Hitch grinds her pelvis into his. It knocks the wind out of him for a moment, it’s been so-- so long since he--

He almost pulls some of her hair out when he arches his back, legs half spread on the backseat as he sinks his teeth into the soft skin of her neck. Her movements are supple, graceful, hypnotic as she rides him through his clothes. The fibers between his fingers is fluffy, soft, almost overabundant as he rubs her scalp, enjoying the feel of every inch of her body she’s willing to give him.

But when he starts to reach up her shirt, she cuts him off with a ragged gasp.

“No, stop, stop  _please_  I can’t--”

Just that fast, the moment dies.

He releases her instantly, and she hides her face behind her hands, sitting further back on his thighs as she pants. Jean freezes, trying desperately to think through the hormones and the alcohol what he might possibly have done wrong. And then he remembers.

“Hey,” and he doesn’t reach for her, every nerve still raw with lust and hyper-aware of the fear in the outline of her body. “It’s okay. I get it.”

The woman’s voice is broken, breaking at the edges as she sobs tearlessly into her palms. “You-- no, you  _can’t_  get it, that’s not--”

“No, I do. It’s Annie, right?”

Hitch’s breathing stops. Her hands are still covering her face, so he can’t read her expression.

“… Annie?”

“Yeah. I saw you two at the coffee shop that time, you kinda… you two seemed to have a thing, so like I… I get it if you’re not over her yet.”

Her voice is soft, puzzled. “The…”

Hitch lowers her hands, gaze still fixed somewhere below Jean’s eyes. The green or her eyes is oddly luminous in the darkness of the car, flickering as she closes her eyes and breathes deeply.

“I’m sorry, Jean. I’m just not over Annie yet, and I can’t…” Her hand ghosts over his crotch and he bites his tongue to muffle a groan. He wants, he wants and wants nearly more than he can stand but he doesn’t want _this_. He’s had enough of pity.

“Just-- just drive me home if you want to make it up to me.”

Wordlessly she crawls off him, exiting the car; and it’s both torture and sweet relief when the heat of Hitch’s body is gone. Jean stays stretched in the backseat, every inch of his skin hot and tense as he sits up enough to lay his cheek against the tinted glass.

She buckles herself into the driver’s seat, passing him her phone with the GPS already pulled up.

“Enter your address, big boy, and I’ll get you home safe.”

His hands shake a little as he taps in the address, but as time ticks by he can feel his muscles uncoiling, inch by inch. Yeah, he’s still kind of really hard, but he’d once slept with someone who sobbed their ex’s name halfway through and he’d felt sick about it for a week. Not worth pushing her - or his luck - for sweet relief. Drunk, he lets his mind drift, but not too far. Or so he thinks.

The stop takes him by surprise, and Jean jolts out of a nap he didn’t realize he was taking. Hitch turns around in the backseat, her eyes clear and calm.

“Here’s your stop, kid. I--” she blinks, her mouth slipping out of a smirk into a more vulnerable expression as he sits up and rubs his eyes. And she doesn’t pull away when he kisses her gently, one last time.

He feels like there’s something he’s missing here. Some cue he can’t pick up on, and he attempts to fill the void with empty, cheap words. “See you around?”

“Are you sure you want that?” She glances down at his crotch, then back up with a dirty-blonde eyebrow raised.

“Why not?” he teases her. “You pay for my drinks.”

“Get out of my car, Jean.”

She’s smiling, but not meeting his attempt at humor - so when he leaves the car, he expects her to just speed off. But instead, she just rolls down the window, slender fingers perched on the car door, and stares out the windshield with a conflicted expression. Jean waits in the cold about as long as he can stand before he finally prompts her.

“Hitch?”

“What is it, Jean?” She tilts her head back to look at him, expression oddly uncanny. He takes a step back, skin prickling with unease and she withdraws back inside her vehicle, tinted glass hiding her from view. It stops with only an inch to go, and her last words are so faint he hardly hears them.

“I had a great time, you know. I-- I really did, okay? I--“ She cuts herself off and sighs. “See you around.”

Then she’s gone, leaving him bewildered in the cold. The moment seeps into his skin, his clothes, clinging like cigarette smoke and the aftertaste of a kiss on his tongue. But when the SUV turns a corner and vanishes from his line of sight, he has no choice but to head inside.

His keys jangle when he bunts the door to his apartment open with his knee, yanking the keyring from the lock as he enters. Jean’s almost forgotten why he’d turned his phone off in the first place - why he’d been drinking at all - but then, the Salvage rounds the corner from the bedrooms, phone held up to his ear.

“Hold on, it’s-- Yes, Jean’s home. I’ll call you back, Hanji.”

And Jean feels his expression darken.

He’s got no right to feel this way, and that’s the worst of all; the blond grits his teeth and bites his tongue as the Salvage approaches him with worry gleaming in one soft brown eye.

“Jean, what happened? Are you all right?”

“I’m fucking peachy, Bodt,” he hisses. No, this isn’t what he wants to say - this isn’t how he wants to act. He tries to reign in his temper, and pinches the bridge of his nose as he focuses. His next words come out a little softer. “I just went out drinking, is all.”

The brunet’s expression hardens. “You could have told me. I was getting kind of--”

“Yeah, right, like you tell me everything.” He shoots his inheritance a hard amber glare, one that seems to hit him like a slap. He hopes it hurts, too. The Salvage glances away, then back again.

“Jean, what’s this really about?” Leave it to what’s left of Marco to get to the heart of the issue - to see through his layers and cut him to the quick.

But Jean shakes his head and retreats to the bedroom. “Nothing. It’s about nothing. Go away.”

“ _Nothing_  doesn’t make you act like this.”

A hand catches him on his forearm, and he yanks out of it so fast the Salvage stumbles. The robotic grip didn’t let go quite fast enough; the brunet pitches forward as Jean backs away, but he’s just-- He’s drunk and he’s hurt and he’s  _really drunk_ , and he just needs to shut up and go to bed. But he can’t.

“You think something’s fuckin’ wrong with me? Figure it out, then.” Storming into the bedroom, Jean wrestles himself violently out of his coat, his shirt, not looking at the Salvage as he rants. “Go on, then. Read my mind, you goddamned secretive asshole. C’mon,” and he kicks off his shoes with such violence he almost sends one airborne to knock into his desk. “Don’t tell me that you can’t do what you expect me t’ do, huh?”

Thus sufficiently stripped, Jean heads for the shower - but the Salvage braces his hands on the walls, blocking the blond’s progress. His eye is narrow, hard as the glowing counterpart on his right side.

“Get out of my way, Bodt,” Jean warns, flexing his fist in an obvious threat.

“Make me.”

He steps forward, mind empty as he glares down the brunet. They’re so close, close enough to kill, to kiss. Jean wonders, briefly, if he’d have enough time to yank out the Salvage’s battery just to make him collapse, knows he could hit him in the right shoulder at the right angle to pinch and crush delicate threads of nerves. So fragile. So familiar.

He does none of these things.

“Move.”

The Salvage shakes his head once.

Jean’s desperate, but even drunk he can’t strike his roommate. More than his fear of blood, more than his fear of losing the money. “Damn it, _move_.”

“I won’t. Not until you talk to me.”

“Why?”

His expression is firm. “Because you’re not okay.”

“I told you, I’m  _fine_. I’m just fucking drunk, okay?” And he reaches forward, places his hand on a faintly freckled shoulder, and pushes. “I’m really drunk and I’m tired and I need you to leave me alone. _Please_.”

The body under his touch resists at first, then he steps out of the way. Jean heaves a sigh, ire fizzling back down to stressed simmering frustration, but just as he’s closing the bathroom door--

“You still should have told me.”

And he doesn’t have a comeback for that, just takes off the rest of his clothes and sits down in the shower, turning the temperature to lukewarm. It feels like rain on his sweaty, dirty, skin, and he stays like that until the water runs cold. 

 


	11. Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wretched delays there - finals and other stuff hit really hard. i'm also working extremely hard on writing behind the scenes and all kinds of stuff so i've been hella busy. also this chapter was... really hard to get out and was just refusing to really come together so whoops. so many sorrys i love you all so much.
> 
> shoutouts to fanarts since last update there is [A](http://lady-shroom.tumblr.com/post/85090487748/im-trying-to-draw-render-marco-but-the-stupid) [FUCKING](http://lemonorangelime.tumblr.com/post/83242327936/render-marco-ive-never-really-drawn) [TON OF](http://shingeki-no-flute-fluff.tumblr.com/post/82708629307/render-marco-has-his-good-and-bad-days-marvel-at) [LOVELY](http://balliste.tumblr.com/post/82560773870/because-render-verse-marco-deserves-to-be-happy)[ART](http://youweremyridehome.tumblr.com/post/82383868858/wip-render)[LIKE](http://bakedfuckingpotato.tumblr.com/post/82361265254/saro-is-very-sad-about-the-ova-so-im-uploading-my) [WOW](http://bakedfuckingpotato.tumblr.com/post/80647481311/render-is-my-lifeblood)[I CANT](http://elocinaqui.tumblr.com/post/85583982193/ok-this-is-long-overdue-the-sketch-of-saros-fic)[EVEN](http://bakedfuckingpotato.tumblr.com/post/85489697581/hhhhhh-i-tried-to-draw-normal-things-but-i-ended)WHAT and there's a [kirstang family photo](http://phixuscarus.tumblr.com/post/82962960016/super-massive-long-overdue-art-piece-for) and [that one scene from chapter 6](http://ariosedreamer.tumblr.com/post/81454143173) and [this keychain](http://lemonorangelime.tumblr.com/post/85244268533/render-marco-keychain-commission-for-saro) and even a [casual RBT cosplay](http://arminsglasses.tumblr.com/post/85845980435/what-happened-here-i-was-only-gonna-do-one-fic-ok) gosh i love you guys so much wow. wow.

He takes his cereal with aspirin, ignoring the silent plate of eggs sitting on the counter when he wakes up in the morning as the Salvage washes dishes. Jean feels like throwing up, because his hangover is slight but there’s nowhere for him to nurse the pain. Home isn’t a safe place for him, not when he’s treading lightly with every step, and the tension in his body only makes his sickness worse.

“… It really wasn’t as hard to access the records as I thought,” details the Salvage as he washes, headset over his ear. “It’s not like those could have been really willed to family members, not when Dad never gave them the password…”

Part of him wishes the brunet would notice him sulking, but he’s also thankful for the excuse not to speak; to just ignore the lingering looks he can feel as he swallows food he doesn’t taste. It sits, cold and sloppy in the pit of his stomach but he’s got to deal with it. He throws on his coat with his back to the kitchen, doesn’t look back. Doesn’t say goodbye. Doesn’t even want to, especially not when the Salvage calls over his shoulder. “Be safe--”

The rest of the Salvage’s words are cut off with the faint screech of the deadbolt in the lock, and Jean is gone.

Out the door early, he waits at the bus stop few blocks from his apartment with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, music playing gently through his headset. A neon sign for no one to bother him, but he still notices a few curious glances thrown his way. He stares back with hawk-sharp eyes behind heavy, shadowed lids and most looked away.

But it just highlights how… trapped he is by his life. How much he can’t do - he doesn’t have a car, hasn’t driven hardly since he moved here in a rental, and it’s a horrible reminder of how much he needs to better himself.

The blond shoves his hands down deeper into the denim, closes his eyes with one ear filled with frantic piano and leans against the glass of the bus stop shelter. It’s a dull chill through his clothes, a refreshing feel against his still-pounding head; it helps him think a little clearer, too.

He needs to talk to the Salvage. About a lot of things. He needs to apologize and voice complaints; he needs to ask and answer questions; he needs to just… talk to him like a normal human being. But not… not yet. Not right now. Work comes first. Survival.

Only once he gets through this day should he worry about the next.

 

* * *

 

 “Hey, earth to Jean!”

He shakes his head, blinks himself back into the present as Connie waves a hand in front of his face. It’s lunch break, and Jean’s just received a chilled burger from the vending machine. Barely remembering to unwrap the paper first, he takes a bite and narrows his eyes at his friend. Cold bread and colder meat with stiff, congealing condiments is kind of gross, but it’s convenient and cheap.

“What now, baldy?” he demands, mouth full.

“Baldy?” The dark-skinned man’s eyes flash with temper, but Sasha ropes him back with her arms around his neck.

“Connie, don’t get distracted. We have a mission!” And she grins at Jean. “Come drinking with us! There’s a  _de-lish_  Irish place not too far from your apartment with great food and beer.”

Jean visibly winces. He’s still not totally over his hangover, and while he’s had way, way worse he’s still not sure if he’s feeling it. “I went out last night, and I don’t know if I really wanna go again.”

Thomas joins the conversation gracelessly, kicking the bottom of the vending machine with one booted foot before wincing at the resounding clang of metal on metal. “Oh, you’re hungover? Why’d you drink so much on a Tuesday night?”

“Because he felt like it, Salvage,” Luke replies in passing, one of the few staff members to actually get an hour for lunch. Jean’s still recoiling from the agony of sound waves bouncing around in his skull, but Thomas doesn’t seem that phased by the term and just takes a sip of canned tea.

“Geez, I woulda figured someone your age woulda learned to drink lots of water.” He continues

“My… age?” Jean’s eyes, already squinting from his headache, narrow even more as he glares at the Salvage with all the vitriol in his body.

“Yeah, you old fart,” and Sasha defuses his anger - or redirects it - by hanging off his shoulders in turn. “You’re soooooo old.”

The dyed blond snorts. “Bite me. In any case,” he continues and he swears his old friend’s eyes actually sparkle, “I don’t really feel like going home either.”

He kind of expects Connie to pepper him with questions, but instead the dark-skinned man aims a furious groan at the ceiling. Sasha abandons Jean with a squawk of joy and shoves her hand into Connie’s front pocket.

“Pay up, I told you they’d be awkward!”

Between sandwich bites, Jean tilts his head to the side and makes a questioning grunt. “Who’d be awkward?”

“Sasha and I had a bet that you and Marco fucked after Armin’s party,” Connie explains as Sasha fishes out an alarming amount of cash from his wallet. Jean sputters on his burger, then snatches the money before Sasha can pocket it.

“We didn’t-- why the  _fuck_  would we have--”

He thinks about it for a moment too long, and an image springs to his mind - his Salvage shirtless and panting beneath him, wine staining his cheeks red and his dark hair spreading over the white pillows, the shifting of skin and plates alike as he gasps for air, lips slick with saliva--

Jean’s tongue suddenly forgets how to work, and he almost chokes as he tries to mentally backpedal - but the image is sticking, and his cheeks are already warm by the time he recollects himself and meets Connie’s smug expression again.

“We didn’t fuck. And at this rate we probably never will, so don’t make bets on me again. Assholes.”

Sasha leans on the shoulder of her closest friend, who happened at that moment to be a very uncomfortable Thomas. “Yeah, but you just thought about it, didn’t you?”

“Only because you mentioned it,” he corrects her, feeling defensive and childish. “Also, shut up.”

“Trouble in paradise, eh?”

“Go fuck yourself, Connie.”

And of course that’s the moment where Nanaba walks by, coffee in hand, and gives him a razor-sharp blue stare. Jean buries his face in his hands, where no one can see his lingering blush.

“I hate you guys,” he laments as the sound of a high-five meets his ears. “And the only way I’ll go out with you guys tonight is if you promise to shut the hell up about… about Marco, all right?”

Connie and Sasha link their pinkies together. “We swear!”

 

* * *

 

 

 Of course, a ban on talking about the Salvage/Marco meant it was open season on everything else they had in common. Which was mostly just awkward memories from their school days together, and a trip down memory lane wasn’t much better.

“Hey,” and Connie grins over his dish of shepherd’s pie, “remember that time we played in Marco’s pond?”

Sasha’s mouth is filled with pub chips as she answers anyway, pretty brown eyes fluttering closed with bliss. Jean picks at his fish sandwich, which barely fit on the bun and was delicious but--

“Dude, that mud was so fucking squishy! Remember, we spend like an hour painting each other in it--”

\--the conversation didn’t exactly cater to strong appetites, especially since so many of these memories were bittersweet to him. So many mistakes; his selfishness, his willingness to use Marco as nothing but a toy as he both kept him close and at a careful distance. And he’d never even gotten to say he--

Connie snaps his fingers in front of Jean, startling him badly - in retaliation, he tries to kick the shorter man under the mesh iron table, but instead just slams his shin on one of the support bars.

“Oh,  _shit on a dick_ ,” and he withdraws his leg to rub at his shin and grimace. “That hurt.  _What_ , Connie?”

“You’re spacing out, man. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he replies. “You’re just-- the conversation is kind of gross.”

The redhead across the table grins lasciviously at him. “Not in the mood to picture Marco painted in black mud--”

“Strike.” He raises one finger angrily in Sasha’s direction. 

She brightens. “Do I get three?”

“No, you get  _one_  and then I’m booking it and you have to pick up the tab.”

Apparently that’s enough for her, and she shrugs and eyes his neglected, half eaten sandwich with greed; but then Connie pipes up.

“Do we each get a strike?”

Jean pushes his plate aside, pressing his forehead to the tabletop. It’s an abnormally warm day for November, so they’re sitting outside the little Irish-themed pub and enjoying their food under the gentle glow of the radiant heaters under the canopy. The metal table is cool to the touch, though, and he groans into it. Even under oath, there was still no rest from these people.

“Fuck. Sure, whatever.”

The sound of crispy breaded fish being crunched reminds him than he pushed his food in the direction of Sasha, so he just gives up on eating and takes another deep drink of beer. Maybe his Salvage made him food or something, he can just eat at home if need be.

Connie taps his fingers against this table. Apparently he was going to take his time with his one mention. Jean distracts himself from the tension to check his phone; no messages from the Salvage, though he obviously should have been home by now. Maybe he’s busy talking to all the other people in his life now. Maybe he gave up. Neither thought is especially pleasant.

“Why don’t you just admit you like Marco?”

Jean glances up, scowling, and pocket his phone. “Because my Salvage is  _not_  Marco.”

Whatever reaction he might have been expecting, it wasn’t this. Sasha’s eyes go huge and terrified, while Connie goes extremely tense. Taken by surprise, Jean fumbles for an explanation.

“Look, they’re just… different people, okay? Marco is--” he has to take a breath, the name still burns on his tongue, “he’s dead. Maybe not buried, but he’s dead, and Bodt’s not… the same. So it’s kind of awkward to have-- when you guys say I have--”

“But he acts the same,” Sasha protests, “and he remembers us, so what’s…?”

He sighs heavily, slumps deeper into his chair and takes a deep drink. “Bodt isn’t human anymore, he’s a Salvage and they’re just… different.”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘equal but different.’ I’ve heard that before.” Connie’s dark eyes are hard, uncomfortable like a rock in Jean’s shoe. His friend is furious, but as usual he’s doing a pretty good job of keeping it contained - his voice is accusatory, but low and even. Even Sasha looks uncomfortable, and it takes Jean a moment to catch on. And when he does, his stomach does a little lurch of guilt.

“It’s not-- not whole-body supremacy or any bullshit like that. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, voice lowered. “It’s got nothing to do with Salvages being less, just--”

Connie cuts him off. “No, I don’t think  _you_  know what you’re talking about. Have you asked him who  _he_  is?”

“I don’t have to ask, I know! He’s Maes’ Salvage--”

“He’s your  _best friend_ , Jean! How can you,” and they’re definitely

drawing attention now, but both men are too angry to back down. Tears are glimmering in the corners of Connie’s eyes as his shoulders quiver with tension. “Do you know how much I’d give to see someone again that I thought had died? You’ve been given the kind of chance so many people would, would  _kill_  for and you’re too caught up on  _legalities_  to-”

Jean stands then, knocking the chair over behind him with a clang. “Don’t you  _fucking_  start, Connie! Yeah, I’m sure this looks great to you from the outside, but I didn’t ask for this! You have no idea how it feels to see-- to see _half_ a familiar face, knowing the last time you saw them you treated them like--”

Jean can’t finish his words, his drink, his food, nothing - he just leaves the words hanging in midair and storms out, yanking his coat from the ground and leaving his friends sitting there in furious silence.

They don’t know, they _can’t_ know, and he makes his way home at a breakneck pace. He’s afraid they’ll follow him, so he ducks down alleyways and through stores until anyone who might have followed him is hopelessly lost. But he knows the city from corner to corner, and he emerges from the back of a clothing shop with a precise knowledge on how to get home.

Emotionally, though? He’s a wreck.

Twenty minutes of brisk walking later, Jean unlocks the door to his apartment with uncoordinated, shaking hands. Patting his pocket to triple check that he came home with wallet and phone intact, he checks his living room for a blue glow. It’s dark - kitchen included, and he grabs a glass of water from the sink by the faint ambient light of the city through the apartment’s only window. He makes himself drink one, two full glasses of lukewarm tapwater before slipping to the bathroom and then his bedroom.

Hardly remembering to shuck off his pants and shoes first, Jean crawls into bed and lies perfectly still. It seems that the run home not only freed him from dealing with his friends, it helped him outrun the worst of his thoughts. He breathes in deeply, lets it out slowly, and tries to convince his heart to slow down.

Sobering up, he stares at the wall and the faint shadow of his body cast by the Salvage’s eye. He raises one arm in the fuzzy glow, observing the shadows cast there. Wiggles his fingers. Compares the shape, mentally, to the same hand on the brunet’s body, and finds them nearly identical. His own hand’s a little broader, fingers a little spidery in comparison to his roommate’s touch, which is always natural and gentle and--

The shadow on the wall sharpens into focus as the Salvage rolls over, and Jean yanks his arm back against his body. He holds his breath for a moment, forces it out as deep and smooth as he can with his nerves. Of course the other’s awake, how could he not be?

But there’s no noise, no further movement - just a sigh that could have been a light snore, and eventually Jean relaxes.

In the stillness and the silence, his doubts and fears catch up with him. It’s not fair; he can hear a million voices all shrieking in his ears on how wrong, wrong, _wrong_ he is. But facing these truths is… painful. He doesn’t want to admit the flaws of his past, the fact that his Salvage doesn’t need Jean nearly as badly as Jean needs him. Jean sighs, rolls over and presses his face to the pillow as if he could smother his own thoughts. He hates himself. He’s a failure and a shit friend and he knows, he _knows_ he’s in the wrong. But he also is still sore about these facts, because…

He’d thought the Salvage liked him. Trusted him enough to talk to him, just casually, about things Jean may not understand. But all they ever really talk about are groceries or whatever movie they watched over weekend dinners. Their relationship is honestly just one of circumstance; if he wasn’t living with Jean, the Salvage could have been sold and taken apart for parts. He’s only here, only polite because…

Money. Necessity.

Fine, then. Fuck what Sasha and Connie say - fuck what he might feel, messed up and clinging to the first steady and available person to appear in his life after his parents died. They can just be roommates. He doesn’t need the brunet’s companionship, or his pity, or his food. The Salvage can just… do his own thing, and Jean’ll do his. It’s fine. Everything is fine, everything will be fine.

They don’t need each other after all.

 

* * *

 

 

Jean releases his grip on the miter saw, letting the arm of the machine swing back upwards, saw blade spinning to a stop as he finishes the last board. It’s been an interesting experience, working for Nanaba; he’s done his research - homework, his boss calls it - and he’s really started to find his footing at the workshop. Sure, things with Connie and Sasha are a little tense this morning, but it’ll pass. And if not, then hey. No skin off his back.

There’s a fine mist of sawdust on his pants - he pats it off with slightly sweaty palms and rubs one shoulder absently. It’s nice to be able to create things again - he’d always liked that aspect of his classes. He wasn’t always the most inventive, but he was damn good at creating whatever he could visualize.

Of course, it’s not like Jean had actual input on the designs here, but it’s still rewarding to help them come to fruition.

He’s just about to get to work, drilling the boards together to start on one of the myriad of bookshelves on the set - complete with mechanics in the back to send books flying at opportune moments of the supernatural production - when he hears a shrill scream, and a faintly metallic crash.

Jean freezes, glances around at his coworkers to gauge what to do; then Nanaba comes out of their office like a storm cloud, dark-eyed and gracefully silent, and he follows them on reflex. Out the door, down the hall and then they’re backstage, where a cluster of workers is huddled on stage right.

“What happened?” Nanaba’s voice cuts through the murmur, and the crowd parts to reveal the theatre’s Salvage sprawled on the stage, his hips seemingly disjointed from his spine and his complexion white. It makes Jean pause, flinch – it’s obviously agonizing and unnatural, he almost wants to run the opposite way.

His stomach clenches, twists painfully at the sight as Nanaba kneels and gently pushes up the hem of Thomas’ shirt. The Salvage’s breathing hitches and he gives a weak groan of pain, and to the temporary worker it’s obvious why. The metal bolted to his hipbones has sprung loose, bright blood starting to seep from the injury and highlighting the inches-wide gap between the replacement limbs and his body.

He’s seen an injury a bit like this, and last time it was his own fault.

“Did he fall?” Nanaba’s cool blue eyes skim up, bouncing from face to face until Connie, standing on the edge of the circle, nods.

“I think--“ he swallows, hands hugging his body, “I think Sasha’s off calling the ambulance.”

“Ambulance ain’t gonna do much for him,” Luke comments, having apparently followed them, his expression calm. “Needs a mechanic more than anything.”

Connie’s eyes widen and meet Jean’s - regardless of their fight, Thomas is in serious pain. There’s no telling if he can help, but he… He has to try. Jean glances down at the broken man and takes a deep breath before kneeling beside him.

“Hey, Thomas?”

Jean feels every eye on the room turn his way, but he waits until the watery brown gaze of the Salvage locks with his before speaking again. His voice is still rough, he doesn’t know how to be gentle, but…

“I’ve got a Salvage back home myself. Do you want me to see if I can help you?”

“Yeah,” croaks Thomas immediately, laying his head back on the stage. “Y-yeah, if you could just--”

He bites down on his clenched fist, breath coming in sharp gasps, and Jean looks up at his boss just once. Their eyes are wide; but the androgyne gives him a trusting little nod. Thus assured, Jean tentatively unzips Thomas’s pants.

As soon as the pressure is released, the damaged joint starts to fall further apart - Thomas gasps, his eyes rolling back in his head, and Jean barks a request at Connie.

“Hey, could you-- get down here and hold his legs in position? I don’t want them to move any further. Luke, can you get me a flashlight?”

The redhead hesitates for a split second, then vanishes as Connie crouches beside Jean. His deep-skinned hands are trembling as Connie braces them on either side of Thomas’ thighs, and Jean fights back the urge to gag at the sight of blood.

It’s… not what he expected at all. This Salvage’s legs are more solid, less open, and fully plated with metal. Jean’s stomach sinks as he tries to find the joints in the casings, but everything is bolted into place. He’s afraid, he’s not sure what to do, and Thomas is still bleeding out. Probably going to go into shock soon if he isn’t already.

He’s in over his head.

Even more of a crowd is starting to circle, and he feels real fear starting to settle into his bones. He can’t do this. He can’t help Thomas - the kid needs a doctor, not a mechanic. He can’t--- he can’t help, he can’t, he can’t can’t _can’t_ \--

“Aren’t you gonna call Marco?”

Jean’s eyes flick up to stare, glassy, at the blur that is Connie to his unfocused eyes. Then he blinks, and reads the scowl on Connie’s face. A prompt to snap out of it; a way out.

He’s dialing the line before he even remembers they’re supposed to be mad at each other.

It rings once.

And midway through the fourth, a voice - drowsy, slow, guarded - cuts through the fog. The fact that he can tell all this from one syllable makes him want to laugh or cry, or both at once.

_“Jean?”_

“Bodt,” he breathes. “Hey.”

 _“What’s wrong?”_  Of course, his Salvage can read him too.

“There was an-- an accident at work,” and he slips on the tiny headset as he accepts the flashlight; already feeling the panic draining away. Someone drops off a first aid kit, but he’s not paying attention. His world doesn’t exist beyond this moment, as he zeroes in on Thomas’ injuries.

He hears a tiny hitch in the Salvage’s voice, and then his voice comes tender and afraid.  _”Are you--”_

“I’m fine.” Jean cuts him off. “But a Salvage fell from the rafters.

He’s a-- a Kingsguard model and it looks like the bones and metal came apart. Maybe more is damaged, too.”

 _“Oh, Jean.”_  There’s pity in that voice, just in his name, and it makes Jean want to admit his weakness for one, dizzying moment. Makes him want to admit that he’s scared, and sorry, and so far from being okay. But he has to hold it together for Thomas.  _” All right. First of all, you have to stop the bleeding. But the more you move his joints, the worse_ _the damage is going to be. Can you see exactly what happened?”_

Can he?

Jean taps the beam on, leaning in to examine the shattered cluster of flesh, steel and bone. He’s so light-headed from his blood phobia that his own voice is coming from a distance.

“It looks like the only things holding his legs to his body are his nerves. Should I cut them--”

Thomas groans, tossing his head to one side as sweat beads on his brow.

 _“No!”_  The gasp that follows, one of the Salvage’s own concern, is so clear Jean can almost feel the brunet’s breath on his cheeks.  _”No, you need to-- okay, just pack the space between his leg--”_

“Legs, his hip is shattered,” Jean remarks, lowering his voice this time. “I think the bones were weakened by the screws.”

_“Legs, then. Pack the space between them with gauze or something, then get the largest bandage you’ve got and wrap it-- uh, wrap it like a belt around his hips and thighs.”_

Jean relays the instructions to Connie, but it’s Nanaba who steps in, snapping orders and dispelling the gawkers as they kneel beside both men and starts ripping open gauze packets from the first aid kit.

“Now what?” he hisses to his long-distance assistant.

 _“Hold on,”_  his Salvage soothes,  _”I’m looking something up-- right, so Kingsguard models have their nerves in the core of their prosthetics, so if they’re dented or anything they’re going to be in… a lot of pain.”_

“Right. Connie,” and he directs his words to his primary assistant. “You still got a pocket knife?”

“Y-yeah,” and Jean leans to pat Connie’s back pocket once, twice before he plunges his hand down between the layers of denim and retrieves the folded blade. His own hands are curiously steady as he cuts through Thomas’ jeans, revealing the dented, armor-like prosthetics beneath.

“It looks like one of his legs are broken,” he relates as he runs his fingers along the cool metal, trying to find any fault in the design that’d allow him to actually open up the crushed limbs. “Hey, Thomas? Where’s it hurt?”

“J-just above the-- the right knee, it feels like something’s st-still,” and his voice breaks as the blond Salvage trembles, “crushed.”

Jean finds a screw in the panel and gives it a cautious, tiny turn with Connie’s pocketknife. “Did that hurt any?”

“No, wh-what?” Thomas stammers, wide eyes rolling to try to see what Jean is doing. Jean frowns. This is weird - his Salvage could feel everything, even the superficial touches.

By now, Luke’s had the sense to get a whole toolbox brought to Jean, and his hands are shaking less as he unscrews the dented metal plates. As soon as the screw’s removed, the leg strains to pop apart. Thomas gives a trembling sigh.

“That’s a little better,” the blond Salvage confesses, and Jean grunts as he works on the next screw, a little higher up on the inside of the iron thigh. He’s almost got it out when a soft voice reminds him he’s still on the phone.

_“I’m here if you need me, Jean. You doing all right?”_

He smiles, hoping the expression filters through his voice when he mutters a soft “fine” and starts work on the third screw.

After a few more minutes of tense work, Jean pops the leg apart, cautiously lifting the metal halves apart as Sasha comes jogging up.

“What’s happening? Jean, are you fixing Thomas?”

“I’m tryin’ to,” he grumbles; then he blinks in confusion. There’s no wires connecting the nerves to the outer shells. No way to feel your surroundings if you bumped into anything. Maybe there’s something in the bottoms of the feet, but--

He leans forward, switches the screwdriver for a flashlight and peers into the cavity of the Salvage’s leg. There’s a core of wires just visible from between a cluster of tiny hydraulic cylinders - and as he examines the workings, he concluded the only reason he can see the wire is because some of the pistons have bent.

“What’s the update with the ambulance?” He asks as he searches for some way to remove the broken pistons, shifting his weight a bit as a dull ache kicks up in his knees and back.

“They’re not-- they can’t send one, since Thomas is a Salvage.”

Jean nearly drops his flashlight. His gaze shoots up, drills into Sasha, whose face is pale as she cradles Thomas’s head in her lap.

“I called Annie, since she works for Kingsguard. They’re sending out on of their technicians to come pick him up and take him back to the factory to get fixed--”

“Oh, god, no.” Thomas turns his head and gives a tiny, wretched little job into Sasha’s pants. “No, no, I don’t wanna go back there. I still owe them so much money from the last accident, I can’t-- I can’t do this again.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Connie protests, giving Jean a desperate look. “We can fix you, right?”

Jean can’t meet his friend’s gaze. He closes his eyes instead, feeling himself shut down. Letting it happen. Locking the moment and the emotions away to deal with later, to reflect on at a better time when he knows how to stop this from happening again.

 _“Jean? Is everything all right?” O_ nce again, his Salvage’s voice grounds him. Reminds him that he has to keep himself together.

“I’ll see you when I get home, Bodt,” the blond mutters, killing the connection before the other can protest. He pockets his phone, runs his fingers through his hair - and then, finally;

“I can’t. Not without proper parts. It’s-- it’s broken on the inside, I can’t--”

And he looks up just in time to see Sasha wipe something off Thomas’ ashen cheek. With cold, steady hands, Jean screws the plates back into place on the Salvage’s legs. There’s nothing he can do. He can’t fix this.

But he stays there for another moment longer, kneeling beside Thomas, as the younger blond - a kid, really, just out of college by the looks of him - shudders and sweats and continues to bleed out inch by inch by inch. It’s terrifying, and he’s-- they’re both just so helpless.

“Well, at least we’ve got insurance,” Nanaba comments as the androgyne rises, blood crusting around their manicured nails that Jean fixates on as Nanaba walks away, along with many of the others. “Sasha, Connie, come get me as soon as Kingsguard arrives. I’ll need to talk with them.”

Jean lurches to his feet and walks in the opposite direction, unsteady in his walk but alone. He manages to find the bathroom and locks himself inside, closes his eyes and washes his hands until his skin burns and feels raw. The crimson on his pants is just paint, nothing else. What got hurt wasn’t even technically human so it’s--

\-- _a tear from pressure on pale, tight scar tissue, a spurt of blood that trailed down a union of bionics and bone, and the bruise lingered for days_ \--

A knock resounds on the door, and he shrinks away from the sound.

“Hey! Jean, you in there?”

It’s Dita.

He chances a glance at himself; pale faced with sunken, tarnished golden eyes. He looks less human than Thomas does.

“Yeah, it’s me,” and it tastes like a lie on his tongue. “I’m fine.”

 


	12. Insurance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there went my consistent chapter length. almost 10k words my children. have fun. (drink water)
> 
> hey y'all im heading to Colossalcon again this year sooooooo if you're going you can see me in a week! wow so cool please dont actually lynch me for this fanfic otherwise i won't be able to finish it
> 
> and as always [thank you](http://rainbowderpyhead.tumblr.com/post/86048144651/saro-i-drew-another-render-marco-tried-a) for the [excellent fanart](http://lady-shroom.tumblr.com/post/86667092898/he-thinks-about-it-for-a-moment-too-long-and-an) ilu more than you will ever know. every single one of you.

It’s not like he can just ignore everything that happened this week when he gets home, blood scrubbed intensely from under his fingernails; but Jean has all the fight knocked out of him when he enters the frigid apartment. Furthermore, the scent of chili greets him as he locks the door, softening any of his residual ire. He’s just so, so tired, and raw like an open wound.

“Almost finished, Jean,” comes a calm voice from the kitchen, then as Jean tosses his coat on the couch the Salvage comes into view. “I’m not sure how spicy-- _oh_.”

Jean cuts him off with a silent hug, wrapping his arms around the half-robotic torso and squeezing gently. He hides his face in the thick fabric of the Salvage’s hooded sweatshirt, breathes in deeply and sighs. It’s such a simple comfort. Such a human one.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into the Salvage’s neck.

A mismatched pair of arms mirrors his gesture, left hand gently and soothingly scratching at Jean’s back through his shirt.

“… Me too. Do you want to talk about today?”

His mind flashes back to the scene he’d left behind - of an impersonal stretcher carrying away the limp Salvage, Sasha’s tanned hands stark against blanched skin as they both tried not to cry. What Nanaba had said to the Kingsguard staff, he didn’t know; but the moment of despair and helplessness still haunts him.

“I don’t think so. No. No, I just,” and he relaxes in the other’s arms. “I’m just… sorry for everything this week. I should have at least, like. Let you know I wasn’t fucking  _dead_  or something. I owe you that much.”

The brunet’s lips brush Jean’s temple as he keeps rubbing gentle circles into Jean’s back. “Thank you, Jean. I forgive you.”

He heaves a sigh into the plated neck, knows that his faint little smile can’t be felt through plastic and metal so he lets it spread. But the Salvage is perceptive in other ways, and Jean’s trapped in the other’s arms as the brunet murmurs a question into Jean’s ear.

“So why didn’t you? What happened that night, Jean?”

He tenses, pulls away - the Salvage lets him, but he doesn’t drop the other’s gaze or change the subject. Jean glances to the pot bubbling away on the stove, then back again. He shouldn’t feel guilty at the memory of Hitch’s cold, smooth skin; but he does.

“I’m an ass. That’s about it.”

“No, it’s not.” The brunet frowns - not angry, though, just persistent. “I’m doing something that’s upsetting you. So, what is it?”

In the face of the Salvage’s open admission of his faults, Jean can’t just retreat, turtle-like, into his own denial. So instead he steps back, runs his fingers through his hair, and mirrors the direct approach.

“You don’t always… you know, really  _tell me_  what’s bothering you. Real fucking hypocritical, I know,” and he forces a laugh, “but since you got your phone you’ve been-- on it. A lot. And it’s not my goddamn business who you’re talking to, or what about. I respect that. You’re your own person. But it’s…”

A little out of breath, Jean lets out a shaky sigh. He can’t meet the other’s eye. “I’m a selfish asshole, okay? And I don’t want to be one anymore. So I want you to feel like you can just… talk to me about stuff, all right? Because you don’t, and yeah it’s not like I ask, but...”

His weight shifts from foot to foot, and he feels like a child again, foolish and awkward. He can’t spit out what he really means, can’t figure out how to express his complex emotions in this burnt out, burned raw state. “I don’t want to do that anymore. Tell me what I need to do, okay? I want you to be comfortable around me. With me.”

The Salvage takes a moment to stir the chili, leaving the silence suspended in air uncomfortable, as if by hooks. Then, he turns his attention back to Jean.

“Are  _you_  comfortable with  _me_?”

“...What?”

And the Salvage moves his right arm up, all jerky and mechanically and horrible, and the blond shrugs.

“Well, yeah, I don’t care. Uh, I mean, I  _care_  but like--” He bares his teeth in a grimace, thinks back of his lunch with Connie a couple days ago and tries again. “I don’t _mind_. How you look. Or anything like that. It’s-- I’ve gotten used to it, I guess? You’re like my own personal white noise machine, and my night light, and my live-in maid, and my…”

_…best friend._

The phrase he tastes on the tip of his tongue makes him go red in the face. Insult only heaps onto injury when the Salvage laughs at him.

“I guess we’ve both got things to work on, right?” The gentle arch of his lips makes Jean scowl to counterbalance the brunet’s expression.

“Ah, suck a dick.”

After giving the chili a couple more gentle stirs, the brunet kills the heat on the stove. He chases Jean out to the living room with gentle little prods and swats with the back of his hand, and nudges him down to the couch.

“Go pick a movie or something off the internet. I’ll be right back with some food.”

Jean obeys, selecting some benign nature documentary from the recommendations list. But his mind is too loud to focus on a movie - the shadows are still too close to his feet so he tucks them under his body and presses close to his Salvage when he returns bearing two bowls of food. The little special on vultures starts to play, and he only notices the subtle tightness of the brunet’s mouth when he sits down.

“You’re cold,” Jean means to ask but instead just states, blowing on a spoonful of chili with great impatience. The brunet doesn’t disagree, however, and his body yields to Jean’s in not quite enough places for it to be comfortable. Stubbornly, Jean persists in his lean for another few moments; but eventually he has to break it off and eats in silence.

The Salvage watches the film in silence, dialogue and nature sounds droning in the background like white noise and keeping the silence between them. Jean picks around a bean and hunts out more meat, savoring the taste of beef on his tongue--

But then the deep crimson fluid on his spoon distracts him, and Jean’s heart skips at least three steps and crashes down the stairs as a wave of nausea and fear hits him. Red, thick, viscous like blood--

Blood on the stage, on concrete and asphalt and on his hands, crusting under Nanaba’s fingernails--

He rises, bolts, heads to the bathroom and squares his hands on either side of the toilet seat.  _Fight-or-flight instinct_ , he mentally repeats as a mantra, trying to find a logical escape to his illogical panic over fucking  _soup_. Wonders if vultures have it. Wonders what might hunt the massive birds, scavengers of the dead.

The bowl of the toilet is icy-cold under the tips of his fingers, bracing him just as the warm hand on his back does. He didn’t really expect the brunet to follow him; he’s always done this on his own. No, not always;, he had this for weeks after Marco’s death and his parents nursed him through these spells as best as they could, but that thought right now doesn’t make anything any better.

 Jean fights his emotions to the tune of his own rapid, uneven breathing and the Salvage’s steady voice. “Jean, it’s okay. No one’s hurt. You’re all right. You’re safe; I’m safe. It’s okay.”

He shudders, gags, but keeps his food down. A cold sweat is breaking out over his body again and he can’t stand this, hates this goddamn _weakness_ , this phobia that hasn’t been this bad for years; before he got this inheritance.

“You’re all right, just keep breathing. Take a breath, hold it--”

Jean can obey this, can still take orders, and he closes his eyes as he fills his lungs slowly--

“Let it out slowly, count to five. Breathe in again, that’s it, you’re all right, it’s ok...” The Salvage’s voice overlaps with others in his memory, and he feels his heartbeat slow.

This continues for another few long, deep breaths until Jean opens his eyes to see clear water beneath his nose. Relieved, he flops back to bury his face beside the Salvage’s neck, nuzzling the skin there.

“I wanna go to bed, Bodt,” he breathes. too weak to even care how he might look right now. “Jus’ lemme sleep and promise you’ll sleep with me, okay?”

He pretends not to notice the spike in the brunet’s pulse; ignores the way his breath lingers against the caramel-hued skin. The Salvage just holds him a little closer.

“Of course. Go get into bed - I’ll put the food away and be right there.”

He manages to get to his feet, shuffles to his bedroom on his own as well; then steps out of everything but his boxers and shirt before rolling under the covers of his bed. Jean lies there in the darkness for what feels like a slow eternity, still seeing the occasional flash of red when he blinks. Every muscle in his body cramps and burns, but he won’t react - refuses to run, to pace, to do anything other than focus his breathing and tell himself that he’s alive, alive, alive. Even though so many people he loves are not, not, not.

And just as he’s given up, resigning himself to the emotional constitution of ice and steel, the mattress shifts. A warm body crawls in beside him with a little sigh and a mechanical wheeze, close behind him. Not everyone is gone or dead. Not quite.

“You awake?” the brunet asks, voice low and tender.

“Of course,” and Jean lets the Salvage settle in, body curving around his but not touching, not quite. “It’s fucking cold as balls.”

“The landlord stopped by today. Said the heat should be on sometime tomorrow.”

“You talked to him?” Jean asks, surprised; but also relieved for the change in topic.

The bed shifts again as the Salvage settles in. “I was in the bathroom when he came in, so I just said I was naked and talked with him through the door.”

Jean sighs a sleepy but heartfelt sound of apology into the sheets.

“You know, I’m just… really sorry about. This week. And… everything before.”

He watches the shadows on the wall blur and sharpen as the Salvage gets comfortable; then, on impulse, he rolls over to face him. The brunet’s on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and Jean studies the little things he can make out in the light; soft dark hair that’s getting to be a little long in places, a gently rounded nose and the slight part to his lips as he breathes out a sigh.

“I know,” the Salvage murmurs, then rolls again so his back is to Jean, forming a fortress with his body to shield the blond from the rest of the world. It’s familiar and deliberate, and Jean fights the gravitational pull to wrap his arms around the brunet’s form.

He stares, instead, at the back of the Salvage’s neck and the pattern of plates there peeking about the neck of his sweatshirt. This too, has become familiar to him. A comfort. Dangerous in its own subtle way.

Everything he learns to love, he loses.

 

* * *

 

He can still feel blood sticking in between his fingers when he wakes up; his dream clings to the corners of his vision, scarlet hued and peppered with shards of shattered glass. Urgency, desperation compels him to shake his companion awake.

“Mar--”

The name breaks in his mouth - no, that was the man in his dream, not this one. His hands form fists in the Salvage’s loose sweatshirt and he tugs, trying to get the fabric off. He has to know, check that the body lying beside him is still--

\-- intact. Not torn apart at the seams, like Thomas. Not dead and rotting, like his precious mother and kind stepfather. That he’s here, and now, and not--

“Jean?”

The blond straddles his companion and fumbles the lamp on the desk on, and only then does he breathe. The Salvage is unharmed, at least what he can see of him. Same glowing blue eye that’s cracked a little in the corner from where Jean had fixed it once; same scars and steel plates framing one side of his face, same distinct freckles. Still in a rush, he pushes up the hem of both shirt and sweatshirt with unsteady hands; up and up, until the brunet complies and the garment is thrown aside. Instantly, he applies his mechanic’s touch to the body, feeling every warming plastic plate and metal bar. Along the scars where flesh meets synthetic, across his chest and down his arm, bring the hand up for closer inspection.

Jean sits back on the brunet’s thighs, eyes closing with relief. He’s intact. He’s okay. It was only a dream. Absently, he presses the robotic hand against his cheek, clutching it to him like it’ll anchor him in reality. His heartbeat is still racing, but it’s reaching the finish line and slowing down.

They’re both okay.

“Jean?” the Salvage repeats, and only now the blond hears his name as the Salvage sits up. “Are you all right?”

His eyes flutter open again, take in the prone form underneath him and he forces a smile. “Yeah, it was just-- just a dream. It’s nothing.”

“Dream aren’t nothing.” The Salvage’s eye narrows in a frown and he leans in closer to Jean. He continues, voice low and rough with sleep. “You’re upset. What happened?”

“You were…”

Broken, shattered, splattered across the asphalt - robotic parts scattered across the intersection like points on a compass. Jean had tried to run forward but his legs had been slow, restricted, and when he’d looked they’d been mechanical too, breaking down and rusting.

“Oh, Bodt,” he breathes like a prayer, eyes fluttering closed, “what would I do without you?”

Plastic-tipped fingers contract, pushing on the soft skin between Jean’s ear and jaw before sliding up to scratch lightly at his scalp. “Probably eat cheap cereals for breakfast every day and beer for dinner. Not much else of a change, really.”

Jean’s eyes snap wide open then narrow into furious slits, and he shoves the robotic hand away. “I’m being serious,” he hisses, muscles stiffening as he shifts his body away from the Salvage.

“So I am,” the brunet insists, catching Jean’s wrist and mirroring the movement from before - though this time it’s Jean’s hand on a metal-plated jaw, his thumb barely hitting the corner of the other’s mouth. “You’ve lived so much of your life without me just fine--”

“I’m not  _fine_ , I’ve, I’ve not  _been_  fine--” It hurts to admit but he’s desperate; he has to let the Salvage know how much he cares, how much this broken and mended man means to him. In the wake of this dream, in this unholy hour, he needs it. He needs  _him_.

“Jean, Jean, I know. I get it.” The other’s voice is soft, smooth, and so gentle. “But I don’t want you to need me, all right? Don’t think that you’re… dependent on me. “

His confusion and hurt must show on his face, because the Salvage rubs his other thumb between Jean’s eyebrows, trying to smooth out the creases there. He complies, relaxing his expression as best as he can; which isn’t much at all. He shakes his head, escaping from the gentle touch, and glares down at the man between his legs again.

“What the fuck are you saying?” He’s upset but willing to listen; trusts that there’s a reason to this rejection.

The Salvage, brown eye tender, traces mechanical fingers across the back of Jean’s left hand. “You’re just fine as you are, all right? I don’t want you to feel-- to feel _broken_ just so I can somehow fix you.”

Jean’s still scowling and shaking, and he rubs the back of his free hand across his eyes. Just to wipe the sleep from them, of course. What can he say to this? How is he supposed to refute someone who can speak these kinds of things so easily?

He’s trying to come up with a fresh rebuttal when the Salvage’s head tilts, and a kiss is pressed against his palm so lightly he more sees it than feels it.

“… I’d be okay if you wanted me, though,” the brunet adds as an afterthought, and he drops his hands away as his gaze lowers as well. Jean’s touch remains for a moment, a heartbeat pulsing in the contact between their skin, and…

… Oh, that’s what he means. Not dependency, but deliberate choice. To choose to be with the Salvage not from pity, or because of his own weakness, or for his inheritance; but simply because Jean loved him.

And he does.

The sentiment settles over him like a slowly drifting sheet, blanketing him in the vital seconds where his gaze lingers unguarded too long. He loves, he wants; every fiber and screw, percentages be damned, everything about the other. Just as he is. And it fills him with an almost giddy kind of despair, because he hadn’t meant to fall in love like this. Was this how Marco had felt all those years ago? The same pain? Was this, years and years too late, what it would have felt like to reciprocate those emotions?

The Salvage shivers. Just like that, the moment dies - Jean rolls off his bedmate, shoulders tense and face warm as the brunet works his way back into his clothing behind him.

“Good night, Jean.”

“Good night,” he returns, lying on his side and facing the wall again, closing his eyes. He doesn’t sleep.

 

* * *

 

His morning is one long haze - the shower is hell when he’s not actively being pelted by the hottest water he can stand, breakfast is light because of his  _episode_  last night, and he’s hyper aware of everything the Salvage does. The brunet pads awkwardly around the apartment in double layers of sweatshirts, but the cold must still seep through on occasion because whenever he thinks Jean isn’t looking he makes a hiss of pain and tries to drink more tea or soup or anything hot. The real unfortunate truth is that since he woke up, there hasn’t actually been a moment where Jean’s  _not_  looking.

They should never have kissed, or touched, or anything else but now that he has he can’t stop thinking about it - it’s like a tune stuck in the back of his head. Except instead of a song it’s just a string of frustrated inarticulate noises. And he’s ready to talk about it, almost. He just needs the right opportunity.

Right now, the Salvage is trying to sneak his third cup of tea since this morning; peppermint, with maybe some of the vanilla and honey he likes to add, doctoring it up to meet his special tastes. It shouldn’t be charming. It’s not. But  _god_ , he wants to chase down that gulp of tea with his tongue, taste it secondhand on the other’s lips and fuck the idea of cold out of the brunet’s steel and bones body.

But he  _doesn’t_ , because he  _can’t_ , because he has to get to work and no one should ever have to have a sexual/romantic crisis at seven am on a workday morning.

Even jogging to catch the bus doesn’t do much to wake him up or snap him completely out of the haze of his own mind, and the trip passes in a buzz. It takes exactly half a Red Bull, the rest of which he pawns off on Dita, to finally wake up and join the real world.

A world that’s conspicuously without Thomas, and conspicuously silent about it. Maybe that’s more to do with the lighting crew being separate but parallel to stage construction, but it makes him uneasy all the same. He can’t talk to Connie or Sasha about it; he’s still busy avoiding them and trying to figure out how to sneak them the cash for the meal he walked out on. So after an awkward lunch break Jean finally broaches the subject while painting, reminding himself to stand up straight as he rolls the long-handled paint roller across the set wall currently laid out on the workshop floor.

“Any word about Thomas?”

His supervisor for the day, Luke, shrugs. “He ain’t coming back, that’s for sure. Heard the damage was pretty damn nasty. Might even get him recycled. I think--” he hesitates, brush in hand as he works on the details of a prop book, “Kingsguard is trying to wiggle out of the insurance claim. Since the Salvage had been, you know. Tampered with.”

“Tampered with? You mean, like… someone sabotaged him? Tripped him?” Jean’s alarm jumps quickly to ire, and he scowls. “Who the fuck would--”

“No, you.” And Luke gives him a pitying smile over his shoulder as he works on his own flat of floor. “Mighta messed up the warranty by tryin’ to stop the bleeding there, you know. Don’t get why you cared so much, anyway. “

The insinuation is like a spark on the gasoline of Jean’s temper. He drops the roller to the floor, marching up to Luke and spinning him around with a yank on his shoulder. The ginger reels, nearly knocking over his bucket of paint as he’s turned to face Jean.

“He was my _coworker_ , you piece of shit,” he snarls at his supervisor. “Of course I cared!”

Luke’s muscles tense under Jean’s grasp, his eyes wide with shock and confusion for a split moment before he sweeps his arm up and out, knocking the younger blond’s grip loose.

“Cool it, Jean. You lookin’ to get fired? Don’t make me report you to the boss.”

His blood is running too hot for him to take the hint, and Jean’s neck cracks as he jerks his head to one side in an aggressive motion. “Rich words, comin’ from someone who doesn’t care about a kid who nearly broke his spine yesterday.”

“A kid?” Luke’s defensive expression holds for a couple heartbeats, eyes bouncing between Jean’s, and then he relaxes with a resigned sigh. “Oh, that’s right. You’ve got one of your own at home, don’t you? A Salvage.”

Jean flinches.

His senior flashes a couple teeth in a brief smirk - knowing, pitying. “Kinda easy to forget they’re not human if you spend enough time around ‘em, I guess. Still,” and the way he claps his hand on Jean’s shoulder reminds him of Hannes, “don’t forget. At the end of the day, they’re just machines that bleed.”

And it’s said so casually that for a vital moment, Jean doesn’t respond. He just freezes, mind blank with shock. By the time he comes back to his senses, Luke’s preoccupied with his own work and the moment’s gone. It’s so… strange to hear opinions he once held parroted back at him. It makes him recoil, doubt his confidence about his Salvage’s identity.

It doesn’t affirm him that he’s beyond those bigoted ideas, though. It just makes him run hot with shame and anger, and he slaps his soaking wet roller on the wood so hard it spatters back on his pants. Black paint hits the denim, peppering it with freckles, and Jean’s teeth flash as he spits out a retort under his voice anyway.

“He’s more human than you are, Luke.”

 

* * *

 

He swears he recognizes the car that’s parked across the street from his apartment, but by the time Jean’s gotten his keys out of his pocket it’s rolled smoothly away and he dismisses the thought. He’s got more important things on his mind, ones like insurance and machinery and a vicious possessive paranoia.

Jean is not like Luke. He is  _nothing_  like Luke, or anyone like them. He’s never done anything to downplay the odd, fragmented life that exists in those bodies. Right?

Unlocking the door to his apartment, he peers around the door and immediately hears a voice coming from the bedroom. Some inarticulate snatches, but it’s his Salvage’s voice with the little telltale pauses of being on the phone. It cuts him, just a little, after yesterday’s admittance of his own faults. 

His first instinct is to slip in silently; to sleuth down the hall and stop just before his shadow might break into the Salvage’s field of vision, find out on his own the answers to all his own questions. But he doesn’t want to be like that anymore. He wants…

If it’s important, he wants to trust his Salvage to tell him. A simple idea, but a little harder to execute.

Jean closes the door with a touch of noisy force, flips on the living room light as he pulls off his shoes and turns on the TV at a low volume. There’s no way now for him to make out what’s being said, no way that the brunet doesn’t know he’s home. He heads to the kitchen and starts pawing through the contents of the fridge, searching for leftovers.

The bowl of chili mocks him from the corner - maybe at a later date, when he’s not tied the food so closely in with such a horrible event, he’ll be able to eat it again. As it stands, he straightens up and roots through the freezer instead until he finds a boxed meal buried in the back. It’s from his pre-Salvage days; some vague meat patty with a cluster of processed vegetables in gravy on the side.

He heats it up alone, sits down to watch a sitcom alone, and the first bite makes him wince. Jean eyes the mess on his plate; he’s gotten so used to good food, the frozen stuff tastes cheap and lackluster. But he eats it anyway, letting the commercials hum in the background as he cleans out the paper tray of food. Waste not, want not, he guesses. There’s still that tiny, distant knowledge; if he loses his Salvage, he loses the money too, and all of this comfort will be gone.

He knows this, but it’s not in his nature to live carefully.

When there’s only a couple bites left, the Salvage rejoins him in the living room, sliding onto the couch half a seat away. Just far enough away that Jean can’t subtly lean into him, and not far enough away that he could really complain about the space. It’s deliberate. It hurts.

Gold eyes snap between the Salvage and the screen once, then twice. The brunet’s openly studying him, layers and layers of clothing making him look entirely too squishable, eyebrows drawn together and brown eye fixed on him. He meets the gaze both times and yet can’t hold it.

Jean shifts on the couch, nestling himself deeper into the cushions, and waits to see if his Salvage has anything to say. Doesn’t trust himself to not ask about the phone calls, and the mysteries, and everything else. He just watches a salesman talk vapidly about some random kitchen tool until the Salvage speaks.

“Any news on the Salvage from your work?” When Jean winces, the brunet’s expression falls. “That bad?”

“It’s fucked up, man. And just by helping I think I made it worse.”

“No you didn’t,” and the Salvage shifts; Jean almost expects a hug, but it doesn’t come. “I’m sure you did your best.”

He snorts, folding himself up tighter on the couch. “My best? Yeah, sure. Fuck load of good that did him, I couldn’t do  _anything_. He needs… he needed a doctor, not a mechanic. I should never have tried.”

“But if you hadn’t, wouldn’t you regret that, too?”

Jean seals his lips shut. The Salvage is right. He’s always right, and it just illustrates the wrongness of his own thoughts and actions. He grits his teeth.

“Don’t,” and the brunet definitely reaches out then, but when Jean glances back up, his Salvage pauses. “You… you did the best you could.”

The mechanical hand lands gently on his shoulder, lightly, and Jean just stares at the hand numbly. His thoughts, once roaring, have blanked into silence again. Something’s wrong.

“Bodt? Is… everything okay?”

Surprise flits across the Salvage’s face, and then he glances to the side and chuckles. “… Nah, I’m just kind of tired. Do you want me to sl--” the word gets stuck in his mouth, it seems, like caramel or taffy, “sleep with you again?”

The faintest flash of a smile crosses Jean’s face, and he relaxes his shoulders. So maybe they have made some progress. “Yeah,” he grunts as he stands, tossing the tray in the trash and slipping the fork into the sink. Maybe he’s just paranoid.

He changes into sweatpants and a warm long-sleeved shirt before slipping under the covers first; the Salvage joins him, mattress shifting under his weight and Jean’s hyper aware of the pull to be closer. But he rolls onto his side, nose to the wall as he pulls the blankets up to his ear and exhales into the space under the sheets. It’s good for conserving heat, but the warmth of his own breath is nothing compared to the brunet’s behind him.

The heat of their combined bodies is started to lull him to sleep, block out the cold harsh world and all its sharp, broken edges. And then--

“Why don’t you call me Marco?”

He can’t help the defensive flinch that follows - but by then it’s too late to pretend he’s still asleep and didn’t hear it. He should have known better than to assume nothing was wrong, than to think that this would never come up. But his Salvage... by being his closest comfort, he had also become Jean’s most dangerous enemy.

Because he didn’t see this coming until he was already trapped.

“… I don’t-- I just don’t think about you the same way I think, uh, thought about him, I guess,” he fudges; even now, reluctant to spring to anger. It’s the truth, but only part of it. Just like how the man behind him is his childhood friend, but only part of him. Seventy percent of him.

The Salvage shifts, and even under the covers Jean can see the sharp silhouette of his own shoulder cast by the blue glow behind him. He knows better than to assume the topics been dropped, and he scrambles to collect his own thoughts on the matter. He’s not ready to debate this, he’s lacking sources to cite and stats to lay out on the metaphorical table; _I love you, but_. So many exceptions and fine prints and legalities, and he hides behind them.

“Look, I-- I care about you a lot. And I care-- I cared about Marco just as much, but in different way and it’s just-- it’s  _easier_  this way. Isn’t that… can’t that be enough for you?”

“You said,” and for his petulant words the Salvage just sounds sad, “that if something was bothering me, to say something. So, no. It’s not enough.”

Jean laughs, a harsh bark, and hauls the blankets closer to his body.

“Fine. I’ll call you whatever you want.”

But it’s not that easy, never that easy - it’s more than just a label, and he knows it but he doesn’t want to go down this road. It’s a downhill slope into dark unknown and he’s terrified he’ll never be able to crawl out again.

“If you could choose between your childhood friend and me, who would you pick?”

“… What?” He stills, body going even colder despite the insulation and company. There’s a blue light in the darkness, but it’s not the end of the tunnel - it’s like the headlights on a car, bearing down on him as he crouches helpless in the street. Waits to be crushed and stain the asphalt red.

The Salvage’s voice isn’t much steadier, at least. “If you could… If could bring Marco back, but you’d lose me-- would you do it?”

And Jean knows, with hollow aching certainty, that he can’t decide. It’s impossible, it’s horrible - it’s like being torn in half, right down the middle, and--

“Why the fuck,” he grits, rolling over to fix the Salvage with a furious, defensive glare, “would you ask me that kind of-- of  _bullshit_  question. What does it matter--”

“Because you’re already deciding to do the opposite.” The brunet’s expression is earnest as he speaks, sitting up on his intact elbow as words pour from his mouth like a torrent. “Because-- look, I know that we can’t just make things go back to the way they were. There is no going back. I should never--”

He swallows, closes his eye, and continues with a calmer tone. “It was wrong of me to, to kiss you that time. I knew you didn’t love me and… I was just being so selfish, and I’m sorry. But I can’t just act like that never--”

The blond waits for him to breathe, to change the subject like they both tend to do. But the Salvage just stares at their combined silhouettes on the wall and collects himself with a trembling inhale.

“Jean, if you don’t accept the past you can’t move forward. If you just ignore your problems they will never go away and I… I don’t want you to ignore the real me just because it’s  _easier_  for you to forget.”

_… Oh._

Jean can’t look the Salvage in the eye; partly from the brightness of his right eye, partly from the emotions of the other. So he addresses his complaint to the blankets as he props himself up on his elbows.

“… How long you been practicin’ that speech?” he jokes, a weak attempt to recover from the stark seriousness of the conversation.

The reply he gets is curt. “A few weeks.”

The blond laughs again, but this time it’s not defiant or harsh - it’s soft. Broken. An admittance of defeat.

He knows all of this, and he wants to be angry. He wants to fight, to yell, to scream and make the other back away. But if he did that, then they’d never be this close again, and it’s…

So, just this once, he listens and accepts the other’s words.

“Give me a moment, okay?” Jean closes his eyes, lets the thoughts sink in. Forces open locked away memories of his own and thinks, really _thinks_  about the Marco he knew and the one that’s beside him now. Accepting them as the same isn’t just about him and his own mistakes - it’s about accepting the person beside him, just the way he is. Everything about him.

“You’re right, though. About the-- about everything. I was wrong, too, back then.” He takes in a deep breath and covers the Salvage’s glowing eye with the palm of his hand. This way, it’s easier to meet the other’s eye; but it’s still…

... It’s still...

“Okay.” And he moves his hand away, squinting a bit as he smiles. The expression, the man staring back at him is the same as he’s always been, freckles just a memory in the dim lighting. But he knows who it is; who shivers both from the cold and his touch. Maybe he’s always known. Maybe this is the first time he sees it, but it’s-- there. That familiarity. That spark.

“I’m sorry about the kiss, too. About… both of them. I love you,” and he makes sure he means it, really means and can bear the weight of all that entails, before he adds, “Marco.”

Shock and joy bloom across the Salvage’s expression, nourished by the sudden glitter of a tear in his eye. And it’s only now that Jean understands what he’s been denying the other for so long. God, he’s been selfish, and his stomach drops.

Jean makes a face and yanks him down for a kiss on the forehead, hiding the mirrored sentiment in his own eyes.

“Geez, you buttercup,” it’s the harshest curse he can manage in this state, “with a few weeks to practice I figured you woulda been prepared for this better.”

The feeling of the half robot face buried into his chest, cool metal and wet cheeks and soft hair assaulting his skin with a miasma of stimulation, fills him with an inexplicable sense of joy. He chokes back a sound, maybe one of sadness, maybe of joy - because it’s still… hard. Frightening.

New, despite it all.

“No, I didn’t-- I didn’t think you’d say you loved me,” comes the muffled reply, and Jean goes rigid. Of course, no, he didn’t even ask if his feelings were returned, oh no--

And then he’s being rolled over, pinned to his own bed and being swept away in Marco’s kiss.

Jean didn’t expect it to be so intense, either - but this is the first time, finally, that they’re on the same page, that there’s nothing to really hold them back. It’s odd, also, to be on his back on the mattress while his partner straddles him; but if nothing else it’s certainly warming him up fairly fast. Kisses shared form a Morse code, little pecks and long slow presses with no easy pattern. He laughs between the smack of their lips, breathless and dizzy and dazed as his hands rub along a broken, mismatched ribcage. But the heart that beats, faster now as Jean reaches under Marco’s sweatshirt to cradle both skin and plastic, is entirely human.

The brunet’s motions above him are unpracticed, desperate; Jean withdraws his hand from the sweatshirt, leans up and cradles the metal plated jaw in his hand as he guides Marco. Jean’s had years of practice, dozens of partners, but his own pulse is still stuttering wildly out of control as he tries to bring Marco closer. Slides his tongue against the seam of the other’s mouth a couple times before Marco gets the hint and lets him in. Jean’s neck is hurting from the angle so he props himself up on his elbows. His hands are tingling from where they’d been on Marco’s skin, and he feels like a foolish teenager, touch-starved and skin-drunk.

Tasting the brunet’s mouth was wholly unlike what he’d expected. The chill pang of metal along the lower right jaw almost made him recoil; but when Marco groans into the kiss, shivering and pressing his body closer to Jean the thought of pulling away became impossible, unthinkable. He ran the tip of his tongue along the other’s palette, hoping to coax out another sound; and when he does it’s like a victory, and he wants to laugh again. He’s practically shaking with joy, nerves, relief - it’s been a long day and a long time coming.

Teeth dig into Jean’s lower lip impatiently, gently, and he can’t help the little grunt of surprise that escapes his mouth as he helps to deepen the kiss. The Salvage is a fast learner, at least - either that or the whole thing’s more instinctual than Jean ever gave it credit for. He eases himself back down on the pillows, content to let Marco take over and give his aching muscles a rest. Maybe he needs a bit of a breather. It’s been… way, way too long since he did this thoroughly. Properly. What happened with Hitch doesn’t count; just a drunken aborted hookup.

So when Marco rolls his hips down, grinding against Jean, the noise he chokes back is entirely forgivable. Understandable, even - as the air beneath the blankets becomes stiflingly hot, like a torrid summer’s day and Jean has to break away from the kiss to pant for air. His hormones are reacting like chain lightning, coursing down his body as he jerks gracelessly against the mattress, trying to contribute to their shared friction. Jean’s sanity is fraying at the edges, ecstasy tinged with fear - what if he hurts Marco, what if he messes this up now? It’s getting harder and harder to think with each motion, worse so when the brunet breaks the kiss to heave gasping moans into Jean’s collarbone. But he still cares, he needs to needs to to-- oh, fuck, it’s so good, too good too much too soon--

But it’s actually getting too hot for him to breathe, so Jean pushes lightly on the Salvage’s shoulder. “Stop, stop,” he pants, running his fingers through Marco’s sweat-damp hair when the other pulls away. “I think the heat kicked back in.”

“Oh.” Still straddling Jean’s thighs, Marco throws the covers back –

and low and behold, no one freezes in the aftermath. “You’re right. It’s working again.”

Moment not entirely killed, just paused, the Salvage glances down at Jean. He has to adjust to the light of the other eye again, so he can’t read Marco’s expression, but he still needs this to slow down. Body be damned.

“Thank God. Now you can fuck right off to your own bed because there’s not nearly enough room on here for both of us.” His voice is more of a rumble then a sharp-edged taunt, whoops, and once he starts talking he can’t seem to stop. “This is more cramped than the door in the Titanic. Sink, Jack. I don’t even care.”

“Do you really mean that?”

In answer, Jean sits up and kisses Marco sweeter than he’s ever kissed before - gentle, romantic, hands lingering on arm and cheek like he never wanted to let go.

“Nah,” he assures him from mere inches away, eyes still closed against the glow. “not really.”

He’s honestly right about the size of the bed - trying to fit them both on the mattress is a challenge. But Jean’s stubborn and Marco’s sentimental enough that they manage to make it work, tangled around each other. His heart is still pounding, but when he closes his eyes and fits himself into the space between the Sal-- Marco’s shoulder and neck, Jean can feel the torrid beat of another heart close to his. And it’s okay, then. Everything’s… okay.

For now, they’re just close and warm and honest and for now, that’s all they need to be.

 

* * *

 

 

He’d managed to fall asleep on Marco’s right arm, for fuck’s sake - and he can feel divots in his side from the plastic and metal. Jean vocally grumps about his fact, leaning over the brunet’s sleeping form as he checks the time on his phone. He’d woken up before his alarm by a good ten minutes, and he drops gracefully beside his bedmate; avoiding the arm this time. The brunet stirs with a breathy hum, scooting closer to Jean.

“Don’t wanna go to work,” Jean mumbles into the pillow. He’s hot and he’s got a headache, unused to sharing his bed with someone else. Marco nuzzles the back of his neck, apparently clingy in the early morning hours.

“I don’t want you to either.”

“But money,” he whines. “Money that buys heat and booze and delicious pizza. I have to.”

“I know.” Despite his word, Marco pins Jean underneath him and the blond really hopes he doesn’t actually get used to this. He’s already got a bit of a problem due to morning wood, and the warmth and weight of Marco’s body is just making everything worse. And by worse, he means better, and then he really means worse.

The brunet poses a cautious question, eyes a little below Jean’s and he wets his lips with a quick dart of his tongue that’s horribly distracting. “Do you mind if I…?”

“Go ahead,” Jean’s voice answers for him, apparently not caring about actually getting to work on time today either. But as soon as Marco’s lips meet the delicate skin of Jean’s throat, there’s not enough strength in his arms to push Marco away.

His mouth falls open on a groan, back arching as his hands claw at the sheets. Teeth and tongue are playing a symphony on his skin and he practically writhes at the feeling, hips shifting of their own accord but meeting nothing but air. Humming and closing his eyes, he manages to pull himself together. Jean pets Marco’s hair as he tilts his head away, giving the other better access to his neck as he breathes in and out, fighting the desire to pant. Maybe they should have gone a little further last night; it’s been ages since he’s had this kind of action, and it feels as exciting as the first time all over again. God, he’s such a loser.

It’s almost a letdown when Marco pulls away, but the faint sight of saliva on the brunet’s parted lips and the way he looks just as undone as Jean feels is a fair consolation prize.

“If you get lonely at work,” he rasps, voice hoarse this early in the morning, “you’ve got something to remember me by.”

Jean fingers the spot, still flushed and sprawled on the pillows, then sits up and forces Marco backwards. “You too, then,” and he shoves the hem of Marco’s shirt up to apply his entire mouth to a spot inside Marco’s left hip.

“Overach--achiever,” the brunet stammers, falling back against the foot of the bed as Jean bites, licks, sucks the biggest goddamn hickey in existence onto the other’s skin. He’s artless, completely lacking subtlety and he’s getting saliva everywhere, but the sound that escapes from Marco’s throat makes him feel like he’s won everything.

A little track of moisture starts to track down Marco’s body, following the curves of his body, and Jean yanks down the hem a touch to lick it up. Just as the brunet’s hips buck up, accidentally hitting Jean in the nose with his hip bone, Marco chokes out an apology.

“ _Oh_ , oh Jean I’m sorry are you okay you’re just so good so so good I can’t--” he breaks off into a yelp as the blond nips him gently on the side as punishment.

This finished, Jean pounces on his Salvage; kisses him hard and fierce before rolling off him and escaping the bed entirely. The brunet just huffs and buries himself back underneath the covers.

Jean tilts his head to the side, wiping some excess saliva off his chin. He’s alert now, at least, if still horribly unmotivated to go to work. “Didn’t sleep well?”

The blankets shift guiltily, and the blond ruffles the little visible tuft of hair, fingers skimming over skin and metal alike. After a moment, a muffled voice reaches his ears.

“… I didn’t want to go to sleep.”

Jean’s face goes red, or redder than before, and a punch-drunk grin crosses his face. “You’re such a loser,” he scolds, trying to ignore the way the sentiment makes him go a little weak in the knees. He’s still so, so afraid of messing everything up that he retreats to the kitchen on the pretense of breakfast.

The smell of sweat clinging to his shirt makes him grimace, and he eyes the bathroom as he passes it. Shower, or food? He might be able to make it another day so long as he changes his clothes, and he also just--

A hand traces the small of his back, pushing him gently in the direction of the bathroom with a cool, plated touch. “Go shower. I’ll make breakfast.”

Jean gives Marco a stubborn look, but he’s just met with a tired, gentle smile.

“You won’t be washing me off, you know,” Marco insists, correctly guessing the real reason behind Jean’s hesitance. “I can just give you

another hickey before you go--”

“Ugh, gross,” and Jean retreats to the bathroom, slamming the door in the other’s face. Despite this, he thinks about Marco’s mouth on his neck and a myriad of other possible places all shower long.

 

* * *

 

Jean seeks out Connie that evening, having missed his lunch break texting his Salvage, and he ventures out on the stage a few minutes before the official end of the workday. Working fast, he’d completed his day’s task a little early; the bookshelves were officially finished, complete with false books and the slots for real ones to be ejected during some of the haunting moments. Tomorrow Connie and Sasha’s crew would assist the set crew in erecting the stage walls, but until then - and until the last of the paint dried - Jean was done.

There’s no stain on the ground from Thomas’ fall, so he can’t tell for certain exactly where the body had lay. Every step he takes feels tentative, however, and he almost expects the tug of drying tacky blood on the soles of his shoes when he angles his head up and calls.

“Hey, Connie. Sasha. You done?”

There’s a bit of a delay, and he dreads the worst; but then two heads peer over the railing, just silhouettes against the distant glow above. He shoves his hands deeper in his pockets to hide the fists he’s making in the fabric, nerves tight. They have every right to be mad at him - especially with what he’d done to Thomas - but he wants to try.

One of them crosses their arms on the railing and leans back a bit - he thinks he can make out the snub of a braid on the back, so he assumes it’s Sasha. The voice that answers him, though, is Connie’s.

“Mostly, yeah. You need something?”

“Kinda.”

“Are  _you_  asking, or is the stage crew asking?” Sasha chirps, shaking her head. Jean shifts his weight.

“ _I’m_  asking.”

Another pause. “All right,” Sasha calls, then both friends vanish and Jean’s left to wait alone on the stage. There’s still a bit of a murmur of movement up there in the darkness, but it’s muted. A faint hum of idle conversation, the rustling sound of ropes and cables, then a laugh.

It seems that everyone’s adjusting just fine to the absence of their co-worker. Then again, they considered the Salvage to be less than human; so maybe they didn’t feel the sense of loss.

The sound of a door opening clicks Jean back into the present, and he turns a carefully neutral look over his shoulder. Connie’s eyes are to the side as he approaches, Sasha half a step behind him, then they stop a few feet away.

“What’s up?” the shorter man asks, mirroring Jean’s posture and meeting his gaze evenly. Jean fishes out his wallet, yanks out a handful of bills and holds it out carefully.

“I’m sorry for what I said at the restaurant a few days ago. You’re… you’re right. You’ve been right, and I’ve just been too much of a giant ass to admit it.”

Connie looks at him at least, but doesn’t reach out to accept the cash, and Jean swallows. Then, Connie’s knees buckle and he crumples to the floor.

“Damn,” he bemoans and Sasha snatches the cash from Jean’s grip with a contrasting squawk of glee.

He forgets that he’s walking on thin ice for a moment, and his eyes narrow as he takes a step back. “What the…” And then he remembers the last time Sasha and Connie exchanged money.

Slapping a hand on the side of his neck, he blushes as hot as his temper as Sasha continues to cackle.

“Sh-shut up, so what? This could be anyone’s, not just Marco’s!”

Both his friends pause, staring at him in uncanny union. He freezes, too. Then Connie’s expression breaks into a relieved grin.

“You called him by name.”

Jean shrugs, hand still covering his hickey. “Yeah, we had a long overdue talk, and made out.” He hesitated, focuses on the aftertaste of the words in his mouth and goes even redder as Connie joins in on the laughter.

“I meant  _up_ , we  _made up_!” he protests as Sasha leaps up, locking her arms around his neck in an attempted chokehold.

Ignoring the way she’s throwing him off balance, the redhead croons happily, “we’ll help you plan a June wedding!”

Connie and Jean splutter, the latter struggling out of Sasha’s arms and trying to will down the color on his cheeks and across his nose.

“Nah man, June’s too hot and busy. Should totally go with like, a September w-wedding,” Connie corrects her, in a tiny moment of complete solemnity that falters at the end as he stammers over a giggle. Then both of them get lost in another cascade of laughter.

Jean does escape eventually, heading for the coat rack by the exit, but he pauses halfway there to glance over his shoulder.

“We okay again?” he asks, and the air loses some of its cheer. Connie lifts both shoulders in a brief, light little shrug.

“Don’t worry much about it, all right? Just go home and play with your boyfriend, maybe pick up some concealer or something over the weekend so the entire building doesn’t have to know you’re getting laid.”

“Jealous,” Jean calls, flipping the bird over his shoulder as he walks away.

It’s freezing cold and starting to snow as he zips up his coat against the frigid air; just a couple flakes and a distant grey sky, but it sharpens his desire to get home and enjoy the weekend as much as possible. He’d been texting the Sa-- Marco during his lunch break, therefore forgetting to actually eat, but he’s willing to wait until he gets home to get dinner.

That being said, he wants to get home as soon as possible, and he’s feeling a little indulgent today; raising his hand as he checks phone messages from lunch with the other, Jean flags down a taxi.

 

 **From: House Bodt [12:58 pm]**  
_i’ll get started on it soon then. Work hard and don’t get yourself into trouble, okay?_

 

 **To:** **House Bodt [12:59 pm]**  
_aight_

 

A yellow car starts to roll to a stop in front of him, only for a second to abruptly screech ahead of it, skidding to a stop perfectly parallel to the sidewalk right in front of Jean. The first taxi honks loudly, but the front seat window’s rolling down and the man inside is snuffing out a cigarette. Jean rolls his eyes.

“You again? If this happens again, I’m gonna have to get your name,” he grumps, sliding into the back seat anyway.

“It’s Mike.” The driver chuckles.

Jean lifts his gaze to meet the driver’s eyes in the backseat mirror, then shares his smile if only for a moment. “It’s Jean, but you probably knew that anyway.”

“Eh, I can be bad with names,” and he shifts the car back into drive. “Headin’ home?”

“Yeah. Marco’s waiting for me.”

“The Salvage, right? Cute kid.”

Jean turns his attention outside and scoffs. “We’re hardly kids. I’m twenty-six.”

“If you say so,” the driver murmurs, cutting dangerously in front of an SUV that squalls furiously at them, and few sharp turns later they’re in front of Jean’s apartment. His stomach is a tight band of pain from hunger, but he still passes off the money with a smile.

“Take care, Jean, and say hi to Marco for me.”

Jean waves over his shoulder, just once, before letting himself into the building. He takes the stairs two at a time, ignoring the muscular ache in his legs from work. It’s been a long day; he’d worked harder than ever, took real pride in his improvement since he started, but the whole time he was only thinking about coming back to Marco. And now, he’s almost home - the little flare of excitement keeps him afloat, keeps him moving.

So close.

Throwing his shoulder into the door, Jean unlocks the door to a quiet apartment. It’s a relief to enter the warm space, and he throws his coat onto the couch. The light from the kitchen is a welcome constant, although it’s still and empty.

“Hey,” and he only hesitates a breath, the name still sweet in his mouth. “Marco, I’m home.”

There’s no reply.

“Marco?”

He ignores the little prickle of fear, a splinter in his soul - a tiny barb of  _what if?_  and he’s confident enough to push it to the side. Marco’s had all day to prepare for their weekend. He’s probably waiting for him, blushing and bright eyed like he used to look as he waited for Jean to open something he’d given to him.

No doubt he’s gone to quite some lengths this time; as his gift would be himself. And Jean would-- will, he  _will_  offer up everything that he is in return.

His face creeps into a mischievous grin, and he heads to the bedroom with a little bit of a swagger. Pops his hip and leans into the doorway, expecting some romantic scene awaiting him. The beds have been pushed together, desk shifted carefully out of the way, but it’s empty. No suspicious lumps in the bedding, closet door open and hiding nothing.

That’s a little odd, to say the least; but he’s not especially worried. Not at the moment. Marco had all day to prepare for him to come home - it’s possible, even, he’s out making preparations for it.

The splinter digs in a little deeper - a thorn now, a pulsing ache he ignores. _What if, what if?_

Jean slowly pulls his phone out of his pocket, hunts through it for Marco’s number without ever making a sound. He’s waiting for the Salvage to pop out from somewhere, the bathroom or the closet or something. It’s unthinkable that--

Unthinkable, so he won’t think about it. Everything is fine, he’s fine.

_What if? What if? What if?_

A faint buzz from the kitchen has the blond near jogging to the room, where the innocuous cell phone sits next to a pot filled with water and chunks of potatoes. There’s a film on the water and a few more missed calls on Marco’s phone display. Jean hesitates, loathe to betray the Salvage’s trust by searching through his phone, but he checks.

He doesn’t even have a passcode lock; typical. Marco’s call history is an open book to him, if not a very informative one:

 

 **Missed call [6:27pm]**  
from: Jean

 **Missed call [4:31pm]**  
from: Hanji (WOF)

 **Received **call [11:58am]****  
from: Levi (WOF)

 **Received **call [yesterday]****  
from: Hanji (WOF)

 **Received **call [yesterday]****  
from: Eren

 **Received **call [wednesday]****  
from: Eren

 **Received call [tuesday]**  
from: Hanji (WOF)

 

and so on, and so forth. No texts from the Wings of Freedom people. They could have been talking about anything.

The splinter is a thorn, is a knife, and it’s twisting in his back. He swallows. Breathes. Forgets how to do both at the same time and coughs violently for breath. It’s nothing, he’s fine - they’re both fine and there’s nothing wrong.

On his knees in the kitchen and gasping for air, he notices a faint smell in the air. Or a lack of a smell, to be more accurate, and Jean raises his head and stares down an empty trash can. Marco hasn’t replaced the bag yet, either. Bit of a bad habit there, and he lets out a massive sigh of relief that he feels rather detached over.

So he went to take the trash out - walking it down instead of just pitching it out the window, what a softie. He wants to feel joy, but the emotion is hollow as he peers out the window to the alleyway before. There’s a fine layer of snow falling down, coating everything (including the sleeping homeless man, again) in a layer of white that blurs the shapes and lines.

No one’s been there for a while. Too long.

 _What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if?_  is a buzz in his mind like he’s trapped in a hornet’s nest, terrible scenarios and thoughts crawling over his skin because if someone took Marco it’s not kidnapping but theft, not murder but property damage and _what if what if what if_

_what if_

_what if_

_what now?_

He can’t answer, flakes of snow landing in his hair, melting against his scalp to run tiny rivers along his jawline, across his collarbone, drip off his nose. It’s his fault.

Wings of Freedom must have taken him; that, that bastard never knew when to put his guard up, stop people from hurting him. Stop people like Jean from taking advantage of him. And, oh, how he’d used Marco when they were kids and just thought he’d always be there to be his shield. He let Marco slip through his fingers, never asked what he was always talking to Wings about and just…

… let him go, let him leave without saying sorry, let his fear hold him back and maybe if he’d just  _talked_  to him for a few minutes on that grey morning all those years ago, Marco would still be one hundred percent Marco. Maybe he’d still be  _here_.

His phone goes off, suddenly, in his pocket and he rears back from the window. His knee hurts from where he’s placed it on the ledge, body tense like he was ready to--

Jean shakes it off, yanks out the metaphorical blade and prepares to fight with it as he reads the name on the caller ID. He answers it, voice only, face sliding into a cool mask even though he can’t be seen. He’s reeling and forgets to actually speak for a moment, mind lost in a maze of fear and regret. If he can just ignore his feelings, these crippling sentiments for just a little longer, maybe he can do something.

He readies his weapon.

 _“… Jean?”_ _It’s Armin._

“I’m here,” he answers; careful not to cut himself on the sharp edge as he waits for the doctor to speak.

 _“Well, I was calling to see if you wanted to get together for movie night sometime again soon, but you sound a little…”_  A brief silence, like Armin’s lost in thought.  _”Jean, are you all right?”_

“‘M fine,” Jean wipes his cheeks off from melted snow, expression tight, too tight and he’s going to snap. “Marco’s gone.”

There’s a deep breath on the other end of the line, but Armin’s voice is steady. Too steady. It’s calm and it’s distant and it reminds Jean who else has ties to Hanji and their company.  _”Tell me exactly what happened.”_

Facts. Right. He can relay those, keep his fear and paranoia and anger to himself for the time. “I came home from, from work--” Jean takes a breath and feels like he’s going to be sick, but he can’t let it happen now, he just has to keep going. “Just a few minutes ago and he’s not here, and he was supposed to be here--”

_“Do you know if he left with anybody?”_

“The spare apartment key is gone,” he croaks, “but he left his phone and some food out and that’s not like him at all, oh god,” and his knees do buckle then - Jean grabs the wall for support, palm slapping on the painted plaster. It stings, just enough to bring him back to the present.

 _“Jean,”_  and Armin still sounds so careful it makes his skin prickle with suspicion,  _”Mikasa’s here at the house with me, can you come here and tell us both all about it so we can start the search for him?”_

It hits him, low and hard in the pit of his stomach, that at that moment he doesn’t entirely trust his closest friend. That he’s afraid that not only did Wings of Freedom spirit Marco away, but that Armin helped.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” is what he says however, grabbing his coat and heading back out into the snow. He doesn’t even feel the cold; his anger is a blaze, a coursing fire and he will burn to the bones anyone who gets in his way now.

Whoever they might be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so goddamn sorry


	13. Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI HELLO SORRY ABOUT THE DELAY but hey now i can celebrate marco's birthday in the best way possible
> 
> woah there was a tON of tumblr posts about last chapter including so neat fanart of[hITCH???](http://mareig.tumblr.com/post/88119297233/i-think-its-not-what-you-were-expecting-but-when)plus some[lovely](http://stressedginger.tumblr.com/post/87507243082/my-half-assed-effort-to-contribute-to-the-render) [marcos](http://unmasked-tomatoes.tumblr.com/post/87444722198/hes-50-done-with-jean). And Maggins did some gr8 art of [that scene](http://maggins.tumblr.com/post/87438855903) so go enjoy.
> 
> CHAPTER SPECIFIC WARNING:  
> This chapter contains some fairly intense blood and violence, so I've gone ahead and upped the rating. If the content makes you feel uncomfortable, send me an ask on Tumblr. If need be, a couple days after this goes up I could post a 'clean' summary of events under a cut on my tumblr but! SPOILER WARNING for that because it'll basically recap everything that occurs in this chapter.
> 
> nervous laughter

It’s not the taxi driver from before, so Jean almost stiffs the poor man on a tip in his haste to get out of the car. It’s snowing here too and he feels like it’s the sky just falling slowly apart above him. No merry lanterns greet him this time as he huffs into the neck of his coat, no laughing friends guide him inside with promises of food. It’s just him, the approaching darkness and the falling snow outside Armin’s house. Truth is, he doesn’t even want to be here right now; but if this, if anything will bring him any closer to finding Marco, then he’ll do it.

There are Christmas lights hanging from the roof, empty and unlit like tiny glasses corpses as Jean steps onto the porch. He knocks as he opens the door, impatient and high strung as the taxi pulls away and leaves the other cars in the driveway silent and alone. It’s nowhere near the volume of vehicles from the party - which feels like it was months ago - but he can still tell Armin has company.

Unfortunately, part of that company happens to be Eren.

The brunet is walking through the hall when Jean enters, and sea-green eyes meet gold for one moment. Eren’s on the phone, short bangs fluffed up from where he’s been pushing it off his forehead, and Jean’s gaze lands on the scars on tan wrists. They’re thick, pale things that look like seams or zippers, and it’s unsettling.

That same wrist flexes as Eren jerks his thumb in the direction of the living room, walking away as he speaks.

“Yeah, I  _know_  it’s approaching the holidays, I’ve looked at a calendar within the past month! But--” he’s cut off by whoever he’s talking to on the phone, and Jean steers clear of him. He can’t tell from here what parts of Eren might be mechanical, unlike with Mar--

He turns on his heel and walks quickly away.

The living room is also busy - Armin’s brought his computer out, typing on the keyboard the little screen is projecting on the coffee table, and Mikasa’s standing by the window speaking quietly in some foreign language to her own unseen person. He catches her gunmetal gaze - she eyes him up and down as if to check that he’s all in one piece, then returns to staring out into the white world. It looks like she came right from work, and the light cardigan draped over her shoulders looks conspicuous against her police uniform.

Jean also catches the firearm on her hip, but Armin’s looking up from whatever’s he’s doing to rise and greet his guest.

“Glad you’re here - tea?”

“I’m-- I’m all right,” he replies on reflex. Armin nods and re-seats himself, taking a sip of something sweet, earthy and steamy in a mug beside his computer. Jean almost reconsiders; it’s cold and he knows that he’s running on borrowed time, that his survival instincts and adrenaline can only keep him up for so long. Better to relax in bits and pieces now rather than wait until he breaks - but he doesn’t know if he can keep anything down.

Almost wonders if Armin would drug him - he could do it, he’s a doctor. God only knows what he has access to.

“Eren’s trying to talk with some of his attorney friends to talk about prosecuting whoever took Marco,” Armin explains, ever the calm in the storm as he passes him his computer. “But in the meantime, can you start filing out this police report?”

He hesitates for a moment, intimidated by the flashy device. “Yeah, sure, I’ll give it a shot,” Jean mutters as he sits beside the doctor on his plush couch.

Thankfully, aside from the odd feeling of tapping his fingers against a table as he watches the screen, it’s not that hard to write. Physically, at least. He closes his eyes from time to time, trying to sort out the scene without thinking of the emotions involved, but it’s miserable work.

Armin heads to the kitchen, comes back moments later with a cup of a lighter-hued tea smelling gently of mint and something else oddly floral that makes Jean think, of all things, of the flower bed outside Marco’s house back in Trost. He remembers the time they tried to make a house for toads behind the lavender, mulch sticking to damp elementary school hands, and their victory over their first grumpy, harmless little patron.

“Thanks,” and he inhales steam off the top, unable to drink with such a tight throat.

He relates, in coarse cold facts, the last communication he’d had with Marco; his arrival at his apartment and his search. On his way out, he’d even checked the dumpster to see if Marco had made it that far and discovered the trash bag filled with little relics of their domestic life together. He leaves out the rest of the hour he’d spent at home, checking and rechecking for any further hints that he was wrong somehow and hiding inside that feeble hope that Marco would come home.

But in the end he’d left a little note on the fridge, telling Marco to call him if he came back. Then he headed out, and now he’s here and his phone is still silent.

He can’t help but press his palm to it through the fabric of his jeans and check to see if it’s there.

Midway through his listing of the items left on the counter, including Marco’s phone and a knife, Eren enters the living room. The brunet lawyer doesn’t say anything at first, just collapses sideways into the nearest armchair with a heavy sigh. He throws an arm across his forehead, then glances at Jean from the corner of one sea-green eye.

“Hey,” the brunet breathes. Jean’s still cautious, and just gives a tight little nod and fixes his eyes on the screen. 

“Who were you talking to?” he asks, after a pause. It’s a little easier to talk to the other man when they’re not looking at each other.

“Ian Dietrich,” Eren grunts in response. “Goddamn pain in the ass.”

Armin is the one who asks the follow up question, though. “What did he say about the law regarding Salvage theft?”

“Same bullshit as everyone else so far,” and Eren’s tone switches into a goofy, mocking tone,  _”the best you can hope for would be the insurance company being willing to try to replace a Salvage, but good luck getting a new one just before Christmas.”_

Jean’s fingers freeze on the coffee table, thoughts stalling out and shutting down. A long, droning mental flatline.

Eren continues though, voice dropping back into its normal pitch and flavored with bitter anger. ”Apparently thievery’s on the rise and they’re even thinking Augmenting might be the new big holiday gift, so parts are in high demand--”

“Eren,” Armin hisses, and Jean can’t even tear his unfocused gaze from the tablet to track the blond doctor’s movement. “That’s enough.”

The man in question shifts until his feet are on the floor, and he leans forward with an aggressive movement. “What?”

Then he snorts, and Jean realizes that all eyes are on him - including Eren. He’s being studied, and then the attorney’s expression shifts to anger. Immediately, Jean meets jade fire with gold, and his fingers slowly curl into fists as he slides them to the edge of the table.

But Eren speaks first, articulate in his rage, and each word sears Jean’s skin.

“I don’t care how  _upsetting_  it might be to you--”

Armin reaches for Jean, freezes midway there, and speaks instead to the brunet. “Eren, don’t--”

“--but god fucking  _damn_  it, Jean, you need to hear this. You need to understand just how  _bad_  this is. How much danger Marco’s in right now.” Eren gestures to the woman by the window. “Mikasa’s currently calling all the pawn shops in the area, trying to see if the _pieces_ they have in stock sound like they belonged to your inheritance. Do you understand?”

It takes everything Jean has to not spring to his feet, so he has to settle for countering with steel of his own. “You don’t think I know? What, you think--” Jean barks a laugh, “--you think that anything you say is somehow gonna make any  _more_  concerned for Marco?”

“Oh, so you’ve finally gotten around to treating him like a human, have you?”

“I’ve treated him more like a human than you have,” Jean fires back, leaping to his feet so fast the coffee table jumps, teacup spilling over to drizzle hot liquid over the table and carpet. “People like you, like Wings of Freedom - you don’t see him as anything other than Jaegercorp’s prototype. Something to be used, or pitied, or  _upgraded_. And I thought that you, out of anyone, might know what it’s like to be taken apart for science.”

The way Eren stills, eyes going glassy for a moment confirms that Jean’s hit a nerve, but before either of them can move Mikasa storms between them. Two slaps ring out, and Jean and Eren are nursing matching red cheeks.

“If you have the energy to yell at each other,” she hisses, one hand cupped over her ear, “then you have the energy to keep working. And shut up when I’m on the phone.”

Eren swallows, but Jean can’t see around Mikasa to know if he’s actually crying or not. Rising, Armin takes the brunet very gently by the arm and leads him out of the living room, down the hall and out of sight. A door clicks in the distance. Tea drips on the carpet. Jean breathes.

“Here.” Mikasa offers Jean a handful of paper towels, clutched like a little disposable flag of truce. He accepts them meekly and goes to his knees, blotting at the mint tea from the floor first. It’s still warm to the touch, and by the time he’s soaked the towel Mikasa’s returned with the whole roll, phone back on her ear.

“Rockbell, is that you?” she asks, already turning away, and leaves Jean to clean up the mess he made.

He’s not left to it for long.

The feeling of his phone buzzing in his pocket makes his already fast pulse stop, stumble, and surge into a double time. Jean yanks it out with a hand still damp with tea, a hand that’s shaking almost too much for him to accept the call and slip on the headset.

 

 **[INCOMING CALL]**  
Little Lion Heart

 

“Yes?”

 _“Jean.”_  It’s Annie. His relief bleeds away, leaving a colder fear in its wake.  _”Where are you?”_

“Armin’s place. Why?”

 _“Good. Stay there.”_  There’s a little pause, and he hears her huff.  _”Hitch didn’t show up to work today - apparently she took her two week notice a little hard. I’m heading to her place to see if she’s there.”_

Jean stops breathing.

_“Your Salvage is with you, right?”_

“Y-yeah,” he fumbles, his voice low as he moves towards the door. “We’re here for movie night.” The lie rolls off his lips easily, maybe a little too easily, but he can’t afford to trust anyone right now.

_“Good, then. Stay there.”_

Then the line goes dead, and Jean remembers how to breathe.

Of  _course_  it’s Hitch. He shoves his phone back into his pocket, tea drying on his hands and he wipes them off on his thighs. All the little pieces fall into place - she knows where he lives, knew about Marco before Jean did, and he’s probably been in her cage the whole time. And if she’s acting now, maybe out of desperation, there’s no telling--

No, there  _is_  telling, because Eren’s first reaction is to check the pawn shop for fucking pieces. He has to find Hitch now. But how? He doesn’t even know her first name.

For the second time in just ten minutes, Jean freezes. Grabs the edges of his jacket and tried to remember if it’s the same coat he wore the first time they met. Patting down the pockets furiously, Jean searches every seam of the garment. On that crosswalk, what feels like months ago, she introduced herself to him and offered him a business card. If he can find it, then maybe, then just maybe--

Bits of lint, receipts, even a couple crumpled food wrappers and some loose change tumble onto the mint-scented carpet. And then, a tiny folded little scrap of paper. With shaking fingers, Jean unfolds it. It’s a business card with a phone number, email and a jade horse’s head logo. Plus, the following words, front and center:

 

 ** _V. Lilith Hitch_**  
_“Kingsguard Robotics and Prosthetics; Where Life is Evergreen”_

 

Moments later, he’s halfway out the door with a pair of stolen keys in his hand, looking up Hitch’s home address on his phone. There’s a house owned by someone with the same name, just an hour out of town; and maybe it’s not much but it’s something. It’s a start.

Jean leaves the business card behind - a clue, an apology. He has to leave now, has to handle this alone, but maybe they’ll see it and follow him.

It’s Eren’s keys that he grabs, ironically - or he assumes the vehicle that clucks softly when he presses ‘unlock’ on the remote is Eren’s. It’s an Eren kind of vehicle, expensive and nice just enough to hold someone’s gaze, but not enough to really stand out. A better choice than Mikasa’s squad car from the next district over, at least. He’s already stealing a car. Better not steal a police car on top of it all.

Jean smears his forearm across the windshield to clear off a bit of snow. It’s really falling heavily now, in chunky flakes that cling to his coat as he climbs into the driver’s seat. The pedals look the same way he remembers them - but he hesitates, takes a vital second to remember which is the brake and which is the gas, then slides the keys into the ignition and turns. It hums to life, a gentle sound compared to the roar he remembers from his own car years ago, and it’s so easy to fall back into the habits of driving again. He even goes as far as to buckle himself in.

He lays his phone on the dashboard, turning on the projection option - a tiny map appears on the inside glass of the windshield, and Jean’s eyes bounce from the image to his surroundings as he pulls onto the country road. It’s all backroads between here and his destination, leaving him alone on the road.

Good. Just because he knows technically how to drive, doesn’t mean he feels up for dealing with traffic.

It’s quiet for the first several minutes, and the steering wheel is firm under his hands. Jean’s shoulders are tense and he wants to relax, lean against the seat and not sit so painfully upright, but the weather and the situation makes it impossible. He knows, knows that even though there’s no one else on the road that he should focus but--

He keeps seeing Marco, with blood dripping down his back and that soft smile on his face, keeps feeling his mouth on Jean’s neck and arms around his chest--

Jean grabs the fabric of his shirt, just over his heart, in an iron grip. And then the display on the windshield flashes.

 

 **[INCOMING CALL]**  
Life Arlert

 

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, even though no one can hear him. He’s torn between answering and not, and in his reluctance lets the call go to voicemail.

 

[MISSED CALL]  
**Life Arlert**

 

Jean wonders if Mikasa would know how to track his phone, and puts just a bit more pressure on the gas pedal.

Out here, in the gathering darkness, the roads haven’t been plowed - the car is like a living thing, fighting him as he tries to keep driving in a straight line. It slides, weaves back and forth in little minute paths through the slick snow. Jean’s heart pounds in his chest.

 

From:  **Life Arlert [7:57]**  
Jean, where are you going? You can’t legally drive and…

 

Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t text a reply now - not without stopping the car, and if he stops he might slide off the road. He swipes the windshield again, checking his map and nearly missing his turn. The car fishtails violently, Jean’s fingers clench against the steering wheel and he swears violently as he manages to stay on the road. It’s not good driving so much as it is lucky driving, but at least it’s keeping him focused on the moment.

Snow is starting to collect thickly on the glass, blurring his vision, and he fumbles for a moment before flicking the wipers on. They flick back and forth like neurotic little metronomes, and he hates the rhythm they’re setting.

 

 **[INCOMING CALL]**  
Smitty Werben Jaeger Man Jensen

 

“Oh, fuck you Eren,” he mutters as an afterthought, ignoring the call and watching his progress on the map. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel, can’t keep up with the pace of the wipers or the pace of his hearbeat - but what, what, what’s stuttering out of time?

 

**[MISSED CALL]**

Smitty Werben Jaeger Man Jensen

 **[INCOMING CALL]**  
Life Arlert

 

Smearing the heel of his hand across one eye, Jean fights to keep his focus. Hitch has Marco, Marco needs him and he has to get there in one piece, he just has to—

 

 **[MISSED CALL]  
** Life Arlert

The notifications pile up higher and higher, and his frustration mounts. He wants to just throw the phone out the window, but the tiny map that flashes in between calls keeps him on target.

 

**[INCOMING CALL]**

(765)3177477

 **[INCOMING CALL]**  
Smitty Werben Jaeger Man Jensen

**[MISSED CALL]**

Smitty Werben Jaeger Man Jensen

 **[INCOMING CALL]**  
Life Arlert

**[MISSED CALL]**

 

The wipers flick, his fingers twitch and his heartbeat thuds, and all of a sudden something darts across his field of vision and he swerves on instinct. He skids across the road, hits something with a thump, then the world tilts violently around him.

“Fuck--!”

Something powdery and soft hits him in the face as the nose of the car slams into the ditch, and the wind’s knocked out of him for a moment. Jean gasps for air and shoves against the object in his face - it deflates, and he releases himself from the seatbelt. Fumbles for his phone as he falls against the driver’s side door, and watches the headlights flicker and die. God only knows what he hit, and he wishes he’d been smart enough to grab some kind of weapon.

He claws his way out of the car through the passenger side, then rolls onto the snow with a huff of effort. The sky is a soft, mild pink - ambient light reflecting off the snow, making it possible to see in the dusk. Surrounded by fields pockmarked with the stubble of cornstalks and the occasional cluster of trees, he can see for miles.

But he sees nothing in the road he might have hit - for better or worse, he has no idea what blurred across his vision. Jean checks the map on his phone.

At least he’s lucky. Her place is supposedly less than a mile away. Holding his phone up, he turns until he’s facing the right direction, and then he sees it. A house on a hill with a little cluster of trees around it, a little bastion on the boundary between field and forest - something out of a horror film if he ever saw it. One light gleams faintly over the distance, a tiny narrow beacon, and he sets his eyes on his destination and jogs.

He can see the silhouettes of trees and hummocks of terrain as he staggers, stumbles, has to slow his steps or risk falling over the uneven plowed fields coated in deep snow. Jean can’t fall now, not here - he has to find Marco, has to help him somehow. Just keep going, step after step, so alone but that’s the way it has to be. He doesn’t need help, doesn’t deserve help, he can do this, he has to, he’ll always be by himself - except for Marco.

His breathing sounds so loud to his own ears as Jean approaches the house on the wooded hill. There’s a vehicle in the drive he thinks he recognizes - but he’s not sure, not sure about anything. Not like this. His pants are caked with snow at the ankles, his skin prickling gently with pins and needles from the cold. Everything feels surreal. Like a bad dream.

It’s a modest little place, nice in all the ways it might matter on the outside. No frippery, no seasonal decorations, no wreaths or Christmas lights. The garage door is open just a foot at the bottom, with flickering light spilling out underneath.

A buzz in his pocket makes him check his phone one last time.  


**From: Life Arlert**   **[9:08]**  
_We’re on our way to Hitch. Don’t do this alone, Jean._

 

Ungloved fingers are stiff in the cold as he taps out a reply, just before turning his phone off.

 

 **To: Life Arlert [9:09]**  
_i have to_

 

Jean’s steps are soft, slow, and steady as he approaches the garage door from the side, careful not to let the light shine on his wet boots. But nothing about the sounds coming from inside are soft or steady - jolting, raw mechanical rasps and hisses. The sound of something being put together. The sound of something being taken apart.

He braces one hand under the door and throws it open, revealing a scene that’s more like a nightmare. He takes in the contents of the garage - the heaters glowing in a couple places near the floor, the feeble overhead light, the rows of power tools and other implements on the back wall. And he wants to blame it on the darkness, but he can’t quite process the color that’s splashed on the lone, heavy wooden table and the floor. There are only two people inside - one on their back, chained down and hooked up to machines, and the other standing beside them.

“Took you long enough.” Hitch still has her back to Jean, her voice a low rasp like she’s exhausted, blocking Jean’s view of the body on the table. ”But you got here too late. I’ve already taken him apart, piece by careful piece. Yes, JaegerCorp’s precious little prototype is now all human. Well, maybe sixty percent human.”

She sets aside a power drill with gloved hands darkened with irregular pigment, something wet and slick and sticking to the latex as she pulls away. Her voice is like background music as Jean slowly gathers himself together, the full weight of everything peeling back the veil over his eyes as they adjust to the artificial light. Outside, in contrast, the sky now stands blank and pitch-black.

A nightmare, and he’s starting to wake up. But it’s the morning safe and warm with Marco that is the dream, a faded fraying moment, and this is the reality. Here, with Hitch.

“I’m the only one who knows how he works now.” She titters, shoulders shaking as she speaks. “I even destroyed the pieces. So if you ever want to figure out how that crafty old bastard did it,” and her shoe makes a little wet sound as she turns to face him with a wide grin, “you’ll have to ask--”

Her expression falters, blurs, and he blinks. Something damp is trickling down his cheeks, and as he takes in the color splashed on the table, dripping onto the floor, painting the hands and freckling the face of Hitch as she turns to stare at him, he can’t breathe. Can’t think, can’t understand, and  
to the same beat of blood dripping  
drop  
by  
drop  
to splash on Hitch’s tall, black boots, Jean realizes why he can’t breathe.

It’s because Marco isn’t either.

Wrist deep in gore, Hitch steps away from the table, green eyes wide and dry as she takes in a ragged breath - but he’s not looking at her, just at the horrific absence of metal parts on Marco’s right side. An absence of anything, really, other than a gaping wound in his side covered by soaked patchy bandages, broken shards of bone sticking out and--

 _oh_.

So this is what he must have looked like then, as well. This was the true form of the phantom that followed him home that cold grey spring day so many years ago, that lurked in his subconscious until the very color red made him vomit. This is what Marco had looked like the first time he died.

Hitch takes in a deep breath, eyes closing in a slow steeling blink, and seems to gather herself together. Just in time for Jean to fall apart.

“Let me guess,” and she smiles, like the first time he saw her, but she can’t hold the expression. “Annie sent you after me?”

He can’t answer - still struggling to breathe in the shock of the situation, he grabs the wall for stability when he stumbles backwards. She just smiles thinly, takes the tip of the glove in her teeth and pulls it over her hand. A little stain of red is left on her lip when she tosses the discarded glove in the trash, but she doesn’t move to wipe it off.

Her voice cracks, but her eyes are dry, cold and hard above cheeks marked with spattered freckles of carmine.

“Typical. Can’t bear to ever lose, huh? Can’t stand the fact that I got to your Salvage first?” She takes off the other glove as she takes a step forward, movement a little more violent this time. He’s on his knees now, hands slapping the cold concrete as he dry-heaves, acid burning the back of his throat as saliva joins the--

\-- _blood on the concrete, and it’s Marco’s--_

There’s nothing for him to even throw up, but his body is in chaos. He can’t do anything but watch those blood stained boots as they approach the table, a metal rasping sound reaching his ears, and then a wrench swings into his field of vision but all he really sees is--

_\--blood on the asphalt, and it’s Marco’s--_

Hitch approaches him slowly, like a hunter approaches an animal in a trap. And he is trapped, caught tight in the vices of his own flaws. Any moment and there’ll be--

_\--blood on the asphalt, and it’s Jean’s--_

“If you’d just stayed home,” and if he didn’t know better he’d swear she seemed sorry, “things would have been fine.”

_\--blood on the concrete, and it’s Jean’s fault--_

Jean’s waking up now, like a slow electrical current creeping into his body from the toes up. He watches as those boots stop in front of him, pausing. He takes in the pattern of red on black, inhales the scent of flesh and steel, and then Hitch raises the wrench. Her right leg moves just a little bit up and back and--

_\-- blood on the concrete, just enough to make it slick and--_

He lunges; grabs her ankle and yanks, throwing her off balance as he scrambles to his feet. His body’s trembling, but it’s working now - the adrenaline is running through his veins and he feels, feels feels feels too much and yet too little. She hits the ground hard, wrench clanking against the concrete with a sharp, metallic cry.

Hitch recovers faster than he expected, blood-freckled face locked in a grim expression as she leaps back upright, swings again - Jean ducks and darts between Marco’s body and Marco’s killer, hand scrabbling for a weapon and landing on something made of finely textured plastic.

It’s a hand-drill, the one she’d been using mere moments ago, and it’s sticky with-- no, no, he can’t focus on that now. Just breathe, and swing the drill around to counter her blow.

Little chips of plastic ping off into nothing, but the heavy battery pack on the bottom of the power drill catches the worst of the wrench’s swing and holds up. Her eyes widen - she wasn’t expecting that, apparently, and Jean takes the opportunity to slam the drill bit into Hitch’s side and hold down the trigger.

It doesn’t spin, nor does it really appear to go through her thick coat - it just whines like an injured dog. He takes a step backwards again, anticipating her counter-blow. Hitch moves fast, too fast; she’s almost uncanny, agile and elegant as a dancer. He feels a draft across his nose as she swings the wrench for his head, but his boot slips on the concrete and he nearly falls. If he hadn’t, she might have broken his nose, or worse.

Jean’s back lands against the table, jolting Marco and he swears he hears something. A gasp, a moan, maybe just a little breath, and he freezes.

He knows he shouldn’t look, not from his close, but he glances over anyway. Trails his eyes up legs bound to the table with chains and on the way up his gaze catches on one thing.

Stark against skin pale with blood loss is a large, warm bruise. Just on the inside on Marco’s hipbone. A reminder, a promise - that he’d be home soon, that they’d be together and start to make up for lost time. Something to remember each other by, and the matching mark on the side of his neck tingles. Stings like a tattoo, burns like a brand, aches like an open sore because it’s yet another promise he couldn’t keep.

And when Jean’s eyes turn back to Hitch, they burn with hatred.

“You  _bitch_!”

It’s his turn to press forward, his turn to be on the offensive - more plastic chips fly off the power drill as he uses it like a bludgeon, clashing against Hitch’s wrench again and again as she backs away from Marco. The mouth of the garage awaits behind her, the snow deep and largely untouched. Her teeth gleam just as white as she grimaces with the effort of keeping him at bay. Blow by blow, again and again they counter and cancel out each other, and bit by bit the drill falls to pieces.

The wrench skims across his knuckles as he lets her get too close, close enough that he can feel her breath across his cheeks - it tastes of steel, of winter, of industry and smoke. There’s blood on his hands - is it his? Is it Marcos? The pain is a delayed response, numbed by cold and only a little line of warmth is drawn across the back of his hand. It doesn’t slow him down, just adds fuel to the fire of his rage and he’d set himself ablaze if he thought he’d burn her as well.

Hitch steps back and he manages to catch her arm at the apex of the swing - caught and off balance, she’s helpless and they hover there for a moment as she mirrors his action. Face to face and panting hard, Jean searches her eyes for anything; remorse, fear, some kind of weakness he can use against her. But he finds nothing, nothing at all. They’re a dead, glassy green that shine in the darkness. Or are they glowing?

She tears loose and he tries to yank out of her grip but she’s stronger; her arm winds back, unnaturally, as she prepares for another swing. Desperate, Jean kicks out at her knee and lands a nasty hit, and when her leg buckles he uses her own momentum to spin her around. Face first, she collides with the corner of the table, and Jean backs up the force by slamming the back of her head with his free elbow.

There’s a crisp kind of crunch, one that fills him with both nausea and satisfaction, and the grip on his arm goes slack. He steps back, watches her crumple to the floor with a smear of blood following her path down the edge of the table. He lets the drill drop, shatter on the floor and he’s instantly by Marco’s side. The brunet is very still.

“Marco?” he asks anyway, knowing the brunet can’t hear him as he cradles the cold, intact cheek. Marco’s hooked up to some kind of machine that, even as Jean watches, expands and contracts like a slow, uneven breath. His own heartbeat stutters, and he tries to feel for a pulse. But his fingers are cold, and bloody, and shaking--

There’s a groan, but it doesn’t come from Marco, and Jean whirls around in horror. Hitch is pulling herself to her feet, one hand gripping the table and the other covering her right eye. Something small falls to the ground, colorless and gleaming - her breath catches like she’s crying, but when she looks up her eyes are dry.

And one of them sports a spider web of cracks across it.

“What?” and he can’t help but back away as Hitch wipes Marco’s blood of her face and stands, “what the fuck…”

There’s a cut on her cheek just below her broken right eye, but there’s no blood coming from it. He backs away further, until he’s pinned against the wall, and it takes a power tool digging into his spine to snap him out of his state of shock. Jean scrambles for a new weapon, takes in the tools nearby.

Knives, tweezers, a handheld saw - all covered in blood and too small, too hard to use anyway. But there’s a plumbing wrench hanging up on the wall, so he snatches that in time just seconds too late to fully counter Hitch’s pounce and swing.

He catches most of the impact, knocking her swing down away from his head but it still thuds against his ribs. There’s a dull little crack, and he hears it but doesn’t feel it as he fights just to protect himself. Fights to keep her away from Marco, to stop her from pining him against the wall, but she’s fast. Unpredictable.

Hitch sidesteps and he has to move with her or risk another blow to his ribs. She’s getting closer to Marco with each step, closer to pinning him against the wall, and Jean is beginning to realize he can’t win this fight. He can’t protect both Marco and himself, not like this, and the fear is like acid on his resolve.

“You’re an Augment,” he snarls, less anger and more desperation now - the tide is shifting and Hitch has him on the defensive. “And you still did this to-- You’d  _kill_  one of your own kind?”

Jean takes a step to the side, letting Hitch get closer to the table. It’s a risk, but if he can just trust that she won’t try to kill Marco, then--

“Don’t give me that shit,” she spits. He takes another step back, luring her into position. Just a little bit more. Keep her focused. Keep her angry. “You’d kill me to save Marco, even when you thought I was human.”

His expression flickers, mask faltering - he wants to argue, but Jean’s got her right where he wants her. He darts forward and to the right, taking advantage of her blind side. Hitch makes a choked noise of fury and raises her arm to protect her head. He can’t stop his momentum, however, and there’s an agonizing clang as his wrench collides with hers.

The vibrations ring through Jean’s hands, resonating like a pair of church bells, and both drop their weapons from the pain. But it hits Jean harder, and he’s stepped too close to the wall. Hitch slams him, face first, against the rack of tools - a bare nail stabs him in the side, piercing both coat and skin and he feels a hot rush of blood and pain surge from the spot.

Hitch’s voice is low, gentle like a lover’s as she leans in close to his ear - she’s pinned one arm behind him in an excruciating twist. Instincts scream for him not to move, despite the shallow stab in his stomach, and he freezes.

“The only difference between you and me,” she rasps, her body flush against his and warm and familiar enough to make his skin crawl, “is that  _I love myself!_ ”

Her pitch rises with fury, and just as he tries to pull away she yanks on his arm - it pops, dislocating, as she throws him back to the center of the garage. He stumbles but stays upright, left arm gripping the right and trying to hold it still as waves of pain run through his body. This whole time, he’s been running on nothing but adrenaline and emotion, but he’s hit his limit. Hitch mirrors his move from earlier, kicking out his knee, and Jean just manages to break his fall and avoid smashing his head against the cement.

Hitch bends and retrieves his wrench, and her breathing sounds like she’s crying, sobbing or laughing - little uneven, hiccupping breaths spill from her mouth. But no tears fall, and the only thing that glimmers in her gaze is the broken glass of her eye.

“I just wanted to  _live_ , Jean! They’re going to kill me and I just-- fucking--”

**_BANG!_ **

There’s no blood. He’s a little relieved at that, in a detached way. Just a dark hole appearing in Hitch’s forehead, and a peal of smoke. Her expression blanks, the glow in her eye guttering and dying, and she falls like a puppet with their strings abruptly cut. To her knees, then her hands, and her eyes catch and hold with Jean’s as she mirrors him and collapses on her side.

And this time, she stays completely and utterly still. From this close, he can see the drying blood smeared on her face, can smell it tainting the air between them as he breathes.

“Jean.”

He blinks, coming back to himself and looks up. He expects gunmetal grey but instead his eyes meet icy blue, and Annie slides her gun back into a holster on her hip.

She offers him a gloved hand. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” and he lies again. “I’m all right. Just my shoulder.” He stays on the floor, just rolls on to his back to speak to her better. He can still feel Hitch’s eyes on him, though, dead as they are. “When did you--”

“Just a minute ago. Sorry about your arm, I wanted to have a clear shot before I took Hitch out.” She steps over them both to check on Marco, and Jean doesn’t have the strength to get up and stop her. He wants to trust her, mostly because he knows that he couldn’t protect anyone like this. Her touch is gentle, though, somewhere up by Marco’s shoulder, and her hand comes away clean.

Annie pulls out a knife.

“Wait,” and he forces himself to his feet, ignoring the searing agony in his shoulder, “what are you doing?”

To his relief, she steps away from Marco; but to his horror, she rolls over Hitch’s body and kneels. He can’t read her expression as she speaks, tone dead calm.

“Hitch was over seventy percent robotic. We can take her parts and use them to keep Marco alive until I can take him to Kingsguard.”

“You can’t,” he chokes as Annie medically, methodically rips open Hitch’s clothing like she’s preparing to dissect her. “No-- Annie, stop!”

Jean’s fingers close viciously around Annie’s wrist, and she glances up with a look so fierce his nerve almost fails him. But he plants his feet and prepares to fight her, right arm weakly gripping at his jacket to try to relieve some of the pain. Blood drips on the concrete, but it’s Jean’s this time.

“Annie, I don’t--“ he swallows, feeling his head swim. “Marco wouldn’t want this. It’s wrong.”

“It’s hardly murder, Jean. Not even destruction of company property.” But Annie doesn’t fight him as she speaks. “What’s wrong?”

He glances down to Hitch’s partially bared chest and sees scars; long, dark and serrated autopsy-like incisions, sewn shut in neat rows. He expects to feel a wave of disgust, of horror, but instead he just thinks of Thomas and Eren and Marco. Jean fixes Annie with a firm stare.

“I won’t let Kingsguard have him. Marco asked me that if,” and he grinds his teeth, swallows, “if something ever happened to him, he wanted Wings of Freedom to rebuild him.”

Annie’s arm flexes in his grip, gaze searing him like frostbite. He meets it with the dying embers of his own gaze, knows that he’s a couple breaths away from being ashes.

“I was sent here to clean up Hitch’s mess,” she says carefully. “This includes your Salvage.”

Jean’s fingers tighten.

“I got here first.” He doesn’t want to fight her. But he’d do it if he had to. He owes Hitch nothing, but owes Marco - or his memory - everything. “Tell that to your bosses.”

She glances down at his hip, where blood is starting to dry and cake in the fabric of his coat, and she takes in a deep bracing breath.

But before she can answer, or act, they both see the flash of sirens coming up the long driveway - Annie yanks free of Jean’s grip, and he falls forward to sprawl over Hitch’s body. Annie hides the knife back inside her coat just as the vehicle pulls in front of the garage.

He expected worse, but it’s just Armin and Mikasa - the former blowing past both blonds in order to reach Marco, already on the phone and chattering off details. Jean grunts in pain, slowly forcing his body up before giving one last look at what had cushioned his fall.

Hitch’s eyes are still open, staring blankly forward like a broken porcelain doll as the lights from Mikasa’s car flicker and dance across her face. Jean hesitates, then pulls some of her clothing back across her chest, hiding those awful scars. Mikasa leaves the headlights on, turning off the sirens, and stands beside Jean.

“Was that Hitch, then?”

“Malfunctioning company property,” Annie answers as Jean gets to his knees - Mikasa shoots him a concerned look, but he avoids it. “He’ll be compensated for his injuries.”

“No self-defense policies for Kingsguard’s  _employees_?”

“Former employee.” And her voice is tight when she speaks, crossing her arms and holding the officer’s gaze. Steel and ice.

But Jean doesn’t care anymore, about Hitch or Mikasa or Annie, about politics and law and intangible, petty things. He stands, staggers over to where Armin is fluttering around Marco’s body, and he kneels beside the table. He’s so, so tired, and he just wants to wake up to a peaceful morning. A morning that stretches into the afternoon because there’s nothing for him, for either of them to do but get to know each other all over again. But it won’t happen, because Marco might never wake up again. This isn’t a dream.

He reaches up and holds that chill, limp hand. And he doesn’t let go.

 


	14. Render

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so at this exact moment, render has been completely written. once more an enthusiastic sobbing shoutout to kenjiandcompany, aka Kenji or Emily, and just... all of you guys.
> 
> wow there's so many of you.
> 
> but yeah just a [couple](http://shingekinoboyfriends.tumblr.com/post/89420938851/i-am-mourning-right-now-ok-and-my-only-relief-is) [ new](http://lostlegendaerie.tumblr.com/post/89220890193/drunkkarkat-submitted-i-cant-draw-but-i-was) [fanarts](http://loserboyjean.tumblr.com/post/88990427941); im working on hitch's Augmented design for the curious (pretty lady + Kingsguard prothestics + bODY HORROR HELL YEAH) and just.... yeah.
> 
> I'll be at DashCon, also, so feel free to hunt me down as Carla Jaeger (at least one of the days, if not both)
> 
> kk moving on here u go

_The hushed tone of conversation almost drowned out the gentle, wordless hymn droning in the background. Jean sat in the pew alone, one leg bouncing restlessly since he was too tall now to swing them back and forth to burn off nervous energy. His parents were off with some other neighbor, or friend, or teacher from Marco's history; their voices were at least familiar, but they still just faded into nothing as Jean stared at the carpet. He tried to mentally connect the little dots in the patterned pile, hunting for constellations, but nothing could distract him from what was happening._

_On the little table in the front of the room sat a small picture frame. Every few moments, the little screen would scroll away the current picture and display a new one - starting with a photo of a beautiful pregnant woman and her beaming husband, to an infant, and so on and so forth as it worked its way back up to the present. Or to be accurate, the very recent past._

_Jean even showed up in several of the photos, for birthday parties or trips to the zoo or the swimming pool. But he can't stand to look at the tiny images._

_It's better than a casket, at least._

_The rest of the room not filled with people is filled with flowers; beautiful cut things that can't help but wilt and die in a few short days. It doesn't make him feel any better, and he considers pulling out his music player and plugging in his headphones. Drown out the muttered condolences from well-wishers who'd never spent a day more with the deceased than they had to._

_Jean hated them._

_“Hey, Jean,” and a hand lands on his shoulder as Maes Bodt himself took a seat next to the teenage boy. “Glad you made it.”_

_There were bags under eyes like he'd not slept for a year, white hairs visible in his temples that Jean didn't remember from before. He looked like he should be the one needing a memorial service. Not his son._

_Jean halfheartedly shrugged under Maes' hand as he threw a pointless glance in the direction of his parents. It was obvious that he hadn't had much of a choice in the matter; his parents would not have taken no for an answer if it had been given._

_But he doesn't tell the man beside him that little fact._

_“You know,” and Maes' voice cracked, sending splinters and shards into Jean's aching soul, “Marco really loves you.”_

_“Loved.”_

_Maes's hand pulled away, just a little. Jean didn't blame Marco's father - he wanted to pull away from himself at that moment, too._

_“He... can't love me now, can he?”_

_And it comes out almost hopeful at the end, as though he wanted to be proved wrong. As if he'd ever wanted Marco's love at all, much less now when nothing could ever come of it._

_“Oh, Jean, of course he does.”_

_And the hand on his shoulder patted him, but it was suddenly the wrong shoulder. Jean blinks, confused and--_

 

* * *

 

\--stares at the stark white tile under his feet.

It's probably four in the morning when Jean registers the hand on his shoulder. He's been staring at the blood on his hands, his pants, everywhere - he feels like he's bathed in it, and he's been in a numb state he can't shake. The hand may have been there for a while before he noticed, but it's four in the morning before he looks up.

He doesn't recognize the man staring down at him, blond hair and blue eyes and almost uncanny in the perfection of his features. But Jean just blinks dully, and registers the aftereffects of words spoken in his ears.

“Sorry, come again?”

The man doesn't smile, but his expression relaxes. Friendliness, maybe. Pity, more likely - Jean looks like a homeless man who's been living in a slaughterhouse. Probably feels even worse than he looks, and it takes a deliberate focus to listen. Like every TV in the world is playing in the same room as them both, and the man's voice is just a whisper competing against a symphony of flashing lights and sound. Jean doesn't have to wonder what moments might be playing on all those screens. He knows.

“My name's Erwin Smith, and I'm more or less the director of Wings of Freedom. You must be Jean Kirstein?”

Right, so that's where he is. Jean closes his eyes and tries to backtrack the events of the day - first Armin's house, then his drive to Hitch's place. Their fight, Annie's arrival, then Armin snapping his arm back into place, calling an ambulance for Marco - and then...

He ended up here, at the Wings of Freedom Research Headquarters just a little north of downtown. Right.

“Yeah, I'm Jean. Kir-- Kirstein,” he adds, rubbing the palm of his hand over one eye. “Sorry, yes, I'm Jean. Is-- how's Marco?”

“Alive.” Erwin unbends, posture too perfect, and begins to walk away. He stops a few feet away and glances back over his shoulder, and Jean takes the hint. His own legs don't want to obey him - they are weak and he hates them for it - but he manages to keep up.

 Jean falls into pace half a step behind and to one side of Erwin, leaving the empty waiting room behind. And then he notices the silvery gleam to the man's right arm. The prosthetic is beautiful, almost - like musculature made from woven steel, and Jean wants to picture Marco with such parts. But all his mind’s eye can give him is that gaping, bleeding hole in the brunet's side. Jean tears his gaze away.

A long hallway yawns to meet them, and the acoustics makes Erwin's voice sound even bigger than before.

“He shouldn't be, really - all things considered, a lot more damage should have been done to his body.”

“Should have?”

“Whoever did this was very careful to keep him... alive.” Erwin pauses, gives Jean a little glance as if he's considering adding something else, then continues to speak. “He's lost a lot of blood and we've placed him in a medically induced coma for the time being.”

“Do you have a plan for after that, then?” Jean picks at the dried brownish-red under his fingernails, edgy and miserable, and almost runs into Erwin when the tall man comes to a stop. He follows Erwin's gaze and studies the line of portraits on the wall - especially striking is the little group at eye level of five people all in scrubs. He recognizes Levi, still short as ever, in the center but he's surrounded by four others Jean's never seen before. Two blonds, a black-haired man and a rather stunning young redheaded woman are clustered around their companion, grinning in various stages of enthusiasm. They all seem... happy.

“Yes,” Erwin replies softly. “But you should know some things, I feel, before you agree to anything.”

He doesn't reach out to touch the picture, not quite, but Jean watches Erwin's expression shift as he stares at the happy group. There's pity in his gaze.

“What we do here at Wings of Freedom is still highly experimental,” he starts. “Dangerous, even.”

“Are you trying to talk me out of this?” Jean's almost too tired to scowl but the expression comes so naturally to him that his irritation shows anyway. Erwin glances at Jean, who shifts his weight and slouches like a guilty teenager.

“Look, it's Marco's decision, okay? I didn't--” Jean cuts himself off, glances back at the photo and changes the subject. “Who are these guys anyway?”

“They were our first employees, and unfortunately our first attempts at Salvaging as well.”

The way he speaks, voice soft and gentle, causes Jean to lower his voice. “What happened?”

Erwin doesn't reach out to touch the photo, hands carefully folded behind his back. “Medical students, fresh out of school. They wanted to come here, work for us - they came from the same university as Levi. He student-taught some of their classes.”

His expression is too practiced, too calm.

“The apartment they were staying in... exploded. A freak accident, the report said.”

Jean's eyes widen. Erwin turns away, shoulders tense.

“Our form of robotics is... detailed. Delicate. It's a much more intimate fusion between mind and machine and as such has a very high failure rate. Those four didn't make it.”

The static faces smiling back at him hold his gaze for just a moment longer, and then Jean faces Erwin. He blinks; after-images of Marco's body, of Hitch's broken stare, flash in the moment his eyes are closed. But his voice, like Erwin's, is steady.

“Okay. I still want-- he still would have wanted this. It's still better than Kingsguard,” and he lets the sentence trail off with an implied question behind it. Isn't it?

“It's also very expensive, Mr. Kirstein.”

Now he's getting frustrated, and Jean stops dead in the hallway. His angry voice, just below shouting, rings in his ears. “How much? I can cover it. I've got--”

And the look Erwin gives him is definitely, certainly pity. Jean feels the blood drain from his face, and he braces his blood-covered hand against the wall for support.

“... my inheritance,” he finishes the thought anyway even though it's not true. The conditions of the money from Maes Bodt no longer ring true. He's lost Marco, and now he doesn't even have the ability to save him. The true helplessness, the weight of the situation comes to rest on his shoulders, and it feels heavy enough to drag him down to hell.

Jean swallows. Closes his eyes. Breathes. Does the only things he can do, and he doesn't do any of them very well. “What do you want from me?” he croaks, as he leans beside the picture of the deceased interns.

“If you decide to make a donation, then the Salvaging would come at no cost to you. Do you understand what I mean?”

And it takes him a few more minutes, but eventually Jean does.

“You want me... to give him up?”

Erwin's face is etched with thought lines, wrinkles around his eyes and between his brows - these little seams darken as the tall man holds Jean's broken, breaking gaze. “Legally, you'd just be transferring ownership of your Salvage to us. If he survives the procedure, then he'd be free to go wherever he wanted.”

“If,” Jean echoes.

“If,” Erwin confirms. “It'll take a couple months to even build the parts he's missing, so we won't know if he'll live for a while yet. But...”

“You need a decision now, don't you?”

He avoids those piercing blue eyes, uncannily like Armin’s, and stares down the hallway. There's more pictures hanging here and there, and he's willing to bet whatever pitiful amount of money he has left that they have similar stories behind him.

“You're a strange bunch to display your failures, you know?”

Erwin doesn't reply, shoulders relaxed, posture practiced. Jean's eyes slide over and lock on Ewrin's robotic hand.

“Fuck. Fuck,” he repeats, rubbing his palms across his eyes as he takes in a sharp breath. “ _Fuck_.”

“You're welcome to sleep on it. It's late, and you've had a long day--”

“No, I just.” He barks a laugh. “Let's get over with, okay? What else do I even have left to lose?”

He shoos Erwin on, walking in his shadow further down the hall. It branches, presently, and while Erwin enters a modest office Jean lingers in the doorway. He's just steps away from losing just that much more of Marco - it's like the world is ripping him away from Jean, and Jean is just letting it. How much more can he even take? What else could happen to him?

“Jean?”

Erwin's printing off a little sheaf of papers, watching him with those distant, pitying eyes. He wants to hate him, hate someone, but he's just so tired of fighting.

“Sorry,” and he steps in the office. “Just tell me where to sign.”

 

* * *

 

Hanji drives Jean back to his apartment, chatting happily the whole way.

“It'll take us about a month to Render him - sorry, that's what we call the whole process instead of Salvaging since we don't so much see it as taking something that's broken and making something useful from it. We kinda see the whole process as giving back something that's been lost, or creating something beautiful.”

He's staring blankly out the window and so only catches Hanji's wink in the reflection of the glass. And he doesn't have the energy to return the gesture.

“I wanted to call it Kintsugi, you know, after the art thingy, but Render's a bit easier to remember, right? Oh, whoops,” and the car screeches around the corner, jolting the passengers as one tire goes up on the sidewalk. “Almost missed your building. Well, here you go!”

Jean fumbles with the handle on the door for a moment, then nearly falls out onto the sidewalk as he gets out. He doesn't look back when he closes the door, instead just staring up at his apartment for a long moment in the chill early morning.

Marco won't be coming home to this place ever again.

Jean lets himself inside and plods up the stairs, only a little bit of blood on his pants and under his fingernails as he ascends. He signed Marco - or what was left of him - over to Wings of Freedom, and in a few hours, Dr. Bodt's lawyer is supposed to meet him here so he can sign over all the money he'd gotten just a few months ago. He's lost so much in just a few short hours, and he doesn't want to do anything but maybe sleep and never wake up.

Jean hasn't even eaten since yesterday morning, and his hand shakes as he tries to unlock the door. Instead, he locks it - baffled, he unlocks the door again and enters his apartment.

The feeling that hits him is cold - but then again, so is the air that seeps in from the window that's been left just a few inches open. All the lights are off, but dawn's gentle rosy glow illuminates the grim scene. The couch is on its side, bottom ripped open and he can see the framing inside, can see the trail of wreckage and pillaging throughout the apartment just from in here. Every cabinet is throw open, revealing dishes and cans and boxes of food. A glass jar of spaghetti sauce has been smashed against the floor and the smell of tomato is pungent in the air.

The feeling that hits him is menacing - like whoever broke in is _still here_ , and with shaking hands Jean flips on the lights. They left the TV, just wrenched it off the wall and tore up a patch of the drywall behind it. Jean stays very still, looking and listening for any possible movement. He feels frayed, falling apart at the edges, but he's not stupid. If someone broke in, they might still be here.

Something clinks gently in the direction of the bedroom.

His steps are light, or so he thinks, a little uneven as the floor seems to undulate under his feet. He has to steady himself on the wall, then the doorway as he arrives at the bedroom. Like everything else, it's in a state of chaos yet calm, the aftermath of a storm. But here, unlike everywhere else, he can tell that something's missing.

Marco's other eye is gone - no cheerful blue light glows from the desk by their upturned, sheet-rumpled beds. That's it, then. Only some clothes and maybe a couple of his dearer possessions remain. Every other tangible trace of Marco is gone.

He takes in a violent breath, slamming his left fist into the wall and cursing under his breath. Then another gentle noise sounds behind him, and Jean spins around.

Through the open bathroom door, Jean can see the door to the medicine cabinet just ajar - mirror shattered and splintered. Even as he watches, stares at his own distorted expression with his pale skin and sunken eyes, another piece falls like glass rain, like robotic tears.

And then his expression sneers at him, hundreds of tiny vicious little smiles reflected back at him, sharper than the shards and edges of the broken mirror. Golden eyes shift from amber to glowing green and he feels Hitch's breath over his shoulder and--

He has to get out, get out of there now, it's not safe he's not safe there's nowhere for him to return to, no home no body--

Jean wrenches the window open, ignoring the burn in his right arm, and practically throws himself out onto the fire escape. Slamming the glass closed behind him, he feels it lock but even then he doesn't feel safe, dashes up fragile iron stairs in a path he'd run for months. Faster, faster, but it's like trying to outrun his shadow, _himself_.

He trips on one stair, right arm still cradled to his side and he catches himself on that elbow. The pain is like an electric current and he keeps running. The sound of his feet on the metal echoes, like he's being chased and he's afraid of what might catch him if he stops.

The early morning light can't quite break through the haze of the city - his path is illuminated in a sickly orange glow as he climbs. Each window he passes is black, empty like a void waiting to swallow him up. He takes a turn too sharply and overbalances, only just catching himself on the railing before falling backwards.

Jean pauses. The shadow chasing him shifts.

From up here, far above the tracks he'd worked on for so long, he can see beyond the city. Beyond the confines of everything else, he can see the sky, vast and open. He can see an out.

It gives him an eerie sense of calm as he takes in deep breaths, pulse still pounding but slowing now that he's not so afraid anymore. His body shakes, making tiny little adjustments and he tries to find his balance as he climbs up on the railing. The ground below is nothing of consequence and he rocks back and forth on the thin metal bar under his boots. The sky speaks to him, calls out. Just a few inches forward and he'll never be lonely again.

Just like Marco, he could paint the pavement red. And from this height, no amount of Salvaging could bring him back.

He thinks, he _knows_ the thought of all that blood should make him sick, but it makes his heart quicken with excitement. The only thing left anyone could take from him would be his life and _oh_ , wouldn't it be _fucking fantastic_ if he took it himself? Beat them to the punch?

Jean smirks again, brimming with energy and confidence, a complete reversal of his state just moments ago, and as he leans forward just a little, playing with gravity's pull, he's aware of the tiniest pull in the back of his mind.

A spot on the side of his neck tingles, burns, and he swats absently at it for a moment before he realizes what it is.

“Marco?” he asks his shadow.

Deep down in his pocket, his phone rings - he takes in a sudden, frigid breath and feels like he's just broken through ice. Like he'd been drowning, and he nearly drops the phone as he answers it. The pull, the gravity is still there, is still strong, but it's frightening now. Like it's not entirely him. Like he’s in risk of losing control.

He answers the phone. “H-hello?”

 _“Jean!”_ It takes him a moment to register Connie's voice, and by the time he does he's missed half of his friend's conversation _. “... didn't wake you up, but I just heard about Marco! Are you all right?”_

Jean looks down at the alley far below him, then up at the cloudy horizon. Every clump of miserable grey is edged in gold, light fighting its way through the lingering snow, and he grips the railing with his free hand.

“No, Connie. I'm-- I'm not all right. I need,” and he's having trouble breathing, can't understand why the world is blurring. He blinks, reaches up to wipe at his face with confusion because it's not supposed to snow anymore. In this state, he doesn't realize he's falling until it's too late, balance on the delicate railing shifting as he--

It feels like a push, and then he thuds on his back on the fire escape, knocking a gasp out of his bruised lungs as he sobs for breath. Sunlight breaks through the clouds and Jean wakes up.

He _wants_ to _live_.

“I need help, Connie, I can't do this.” More tears run from the corners of his eyes, freezing on the frigid iron as he stares up at the sky. “I can't-- I need-- I--”

_“Okay, Jean, it's okay. Hey, can you hear me?”_

Jean nods, and it's like Connie can understand anyway.

_“I'll be there in a second all right? Just-- just hold on. I'm bringing Sasha and we'll be there in a second, you're gonna be fine. Promise me you'll hold on.”_

“I can't--”

_“Yes you can, Jean. You can do this.”_

But it's not Connie's voice he hears as he takes in a deep breath and sits up, wrapping his arms around his knees and huddling under a stranger's window. It's Marco's.

_“I'll be there soon, all right?”_

“Yeah,” and Jean ends the call, hiding his face from the cold as he takes in deep, shuddering breaths. One hand reaches up and cups the side of his neck; it's the only trace of Marco he has left.

Everything hurts. The cold hurts, his own breathing hurts, his heartbeat hurts. It aches but he can't jump just yet. It'd be such a waste for him to die now, when Marco's fighting so hard to live. He can't, won't give up; and he clings to that thought, that lifeline, that fragile idea he has to live and that his life matters. Even if it's a lie, it's enough for just a little while, until--

“Jean!”

He raises his head, uncurls his body and stands. Far, far, below, Connie's waving his arms, and Jean feels the need more than the natural impulse to shout something down about Connie catching him. Like he has some kind of asshole quota to fulfil, that his role here always has to be the last man standing.

On shaking legs he descends the stairs, past his apartment window until he's on the ladder above the ground. His foot slips, and he barely hangs on with one arm - his jacket rides up, exposing the nail wound from what feels like years ago.

When he lands and faces his friend, Connie's eyes are massive.

“Shit, Jean, you need that looked at. What happened?”

“Long story.” He shivers, not sure if it's from the cold or not, and lets Connie guide him away from the dumpster. “Tell it later. Need to c-call, call the cops. Someone broke into my apartment.”

“Is there anything you need from there before we leave?” Connie asks, hand warm on Jean's shoulder. The blond tries to think and just shivers again, wipes his face off with his sleeve.

“Phone charger, maybe some clothes. The keys, I've got the keys but it needs to be locked again I think--”

Connie pats the outside pockets on Jean's jacket, retrieving the keys moments later. “I'll do it for you,” and then he's off. There's a car parked out front, and Jean doesn't notice Sasha until she's pounced on him.

“Oh, you look terrible, get in the car I brought you soup.”

Her words all kind of blur together in his mind, inarticulate sounds, but he accepts the little thermos she shoves in his hands without question. He hasn't eaten for almost a full day, and the simple creamy soup is the best thing he's ever tasted.

“Is this... Pumpkin?”

“New recipe,” and she bundles him into the backseat of Connie's car, sitting practically in his lap as she drapes a blanket over his knees. If he focuses on the flavor for a moment, he swears there's cheese and fish in the soup as well.

“Your tastes are insane,” he grumbles, but takes another long drink. He watches the apartment building for a few nervous moments, before Connie reappears with a bundle of clothing under his arms and cords in his teeth.

“Can't tell what stuff's yours,” he spits around the chargers as he gets into the front seat. “But I grabbed some basic stuff. We're taking you to Armin's, is that all right?”

Jean flinches guiltily, but he nods and leans back into the seat. “I trust your judgment. Maybe not your driving,” he adds when Connie's satisfied smirk gets a little too wide, “but... take me there if you want.”

He takes one last little sip, then closes his eyes and leans back against Sasha's shoulder. It feels like he's falling, again, but he lets go this time and welcomes the warm darkness as he falls deeply and truly asleep.

 

* * *

 

He doesn't remember much of the ride, only a warm voice and the briefest sensation of being carried. But when he wakes up to bright sunshine through breezy white curtains, soft blankets draped over him and the shape of a man in the doorway, Jean wonders if he's still dreaming.

He inhales the scent of the pillow under his head, and in doing so his cheek collides with damp spots on his pillowcase. Jean opens his mouth and breathes, tastes tears on the roof of his mouth, and sits up slowly.

“Well, good morning, bright eyes.”

Eren's in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest and a bitter smirk on his face. Jean's eyebrows scrunch together, but it just worsens the pounding headache he only now realizes he has.

“What day is it?” he croaks.

“Sunday morning. You slept a good, oh, twenty hours there.”

“Only twenty hours?” And he closes his eyes, palming some sleep out of his eyes. His hair is greasy to the touch, and Jean contemplates a cool shower. “Feels more like a few years.”

The silence that hangs between them, like a rotting carcass on meat hooks, reminds Jean that he has a little something to apologize for.

“Sorry about, uh. Your car. How badly did I wreck it?”

Eren makes an irritated noise. “Bit of a dent on the front bumper from ramming it into a ditch, but nothing that'll last. Not worth pressing charges, at least. For now.”

That's no small relief; on top of everything else that's happened to him, Jean's not sure he could handle something as serious as grand theft auto. “Thanks,” he mutters, starting to draw his knees under his chin only to feel them creak.

“So.” The blond gives his friend a bleary stare as Eren continues, dark circles under sea-green eyes that probably match Jean's. “What are you gonna do now?”

“Dunno. Shower, I guess,” and Jean peels the sheets back carefully. Eren shifts his weight in the doorway again. “What, you doin' the potty dance over there? Quit fidgeting. Geez.”

He spots the clothes Connie grabbed for him, sitting on the nightstand, and he just kind of grabs a fistful of fabric and sulks off to the bathroom. He needs some time to think, now that he's not horribly sleep deprived or in blood-soaked clothes. No one should really be happy to realize they'd been stripped in their sleep, but he is thrilled.

Thinking logically about anything comes to an abrupt halt when he notices that the sweatshirt he'd grabbed was one of Marco's - a worn deep blue with some tapestry-esque video game art on it. Jean recalls him wearing it on a couple occasions, and when he buries his nose in the fabric and inhales, it smells like Marco ever so faintly.

Eren's still watching him and it's creepy, so he makes sure to lock the bathroom door behind him.

Once he's naked and in the shower, he tilts his head back under the cool spray. Jean's skin is tense under the cold water, but it feels like bliss on his scalp and it soothes his headache. He wonders, wishes that if he stands here long enough as water floods the roots of his hair and courses down his face, that it'd wash out some of the bad memories as well.

After a few minutes and a couple mouthfuls swallowed to quench his thirst, Jean warms up the water and helps himself to the soap and loofah. It's good to wash away the traces of two nights ago off his skin, but he rediscovers all his bruises and cuts all over again. The wound on his side from the nail has been bandaged with tape and gauze - at least he's up to date on his tetanus shots - and the bruises are almost sticky, like they'd been rubbed with some kind of gel. Armin probably treated him while he was out.

He'd love to indulge in the shower for a long, long time, but Eren's smacking the flat of his hand on the door and shouting at him just as Jean is rinsing shampoo out of his hair.

“Hey, lunch is ready!”

Jean finishes his shower and pulls on his clothes, half of them Marco's and a little ill-fitting, and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror again. The little mark on his neck is fading - barely the size of a thumbprint now, and he touches it gently just to try to remember the feeling before it vanished all together.

He can smell food the moment he opens the bathroom door; but the sight of Eren stationed outside his door almost spoils his appetite.

“Don't you have, like, a job or something?”

“I don't work weekends,” Eren deflects, shadowing Jean all the way downstairs to where Armin and Mikasa are setting the table. But the moment Jean steps into the dining room, the attorney vanishes with some muttered complaints under his breath.

Wordlessly, Jean jerks a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Eren's absconding form. Armin takes the bait.

“Someone had to keep an eye on you during the night. Just in case you woke up and tried to do something... _rash_ again.”

Oh yeah; the whole car stealing, robot assaulting, suicide attempting fiasco. That would _probably_ raise some mental red flags. If it wasn't Eren, Jean would probably feel worse about making him stay up all night. But since it is, he only winces.

“I'll have to thank him later,” he more laments then promises, then takes the seat Mikasa offers him.

He eats slowly, though the food is good - lasagna and garlic toast, nothing too special - and the table is notably silent for a long time. Jean checks the expressions of his friends every few bites, trying to get a read on them; but they're both perfectly neutral in the obvious kind of way. Waiting for him to crack first.

Just to spite them, he holds his peace until he's cleaned his plate; then he takes a long drink of water to wash the rest of the food down and finally speaks.

“So, what's with the silent treatment?”

“Just trying to give you time to think,” Armin offers. Jean's not sure how much he believes him.

“About what?”

Mikasa, a slow eater, tears off the crust on her toast and starts wiping tomato sauce off her plate with it. “What you should do next.”

“What's there to do? I just... have to spend the next couple months scraping by,” he gripes, sitting back in his seat and crossing his arms, “waiting to see if Marco can skirt death for like the fourth fucking time. There's nothing I can do for him. We've each got our own battles to fight.”

Armin's plate is empty, has been for a while, but he remains seated and silent. Watching Jean. Prompting him with a silence that grates on Jean's already frayed nerves.

“Don't fucking look at me like that,” and his voice breaks near the end as he leans forward, gripping the edge of the table. “I can't... I can't do anything to help him. He needs a doctor, not...”

The pads of his fingers slip on the wood grain surface as his hands shake. He is angry, and he is tired, and knows he’s doing something wrong. The way Armin's looking at him is piercing, pinning him like an insect on display.

“... Not a mechanic,” he finishes, as all the pieces fall into place.

His heartbeat is roaring in his ears, reminding him that he's still alive, and Armin smiles gently. Like he knows and approves of the bullshit decision Jean’s about to make.

The chair scrapes against the floor as Jean stands, marching for the back door once more. He could kick himself for being so blind. Marco's human, yes, and he needs a doctor - but to ignore his robotic side entirely is short sighted. He needs _both_.

And maybe right now, as his body is in tatters, he needs the man he loves more than anything else.

“I'm taking Eren's car,” Jean snaps as he spots the familiar keys. Somewhere deep in the house there's a muffled yelp of protest, but nothing comes of it as he gets in the car for the second time in recent memory.

 

* * *

 

He’s tempted to kick down the door to Erwin's office; but almost as soon as he'd entered the building some worried janitor or something had followed him the whole way, trying to talk him down.

“Please, sir, you really shouldn't be back here--”

Jean storms into the office and is neither surprised nor deterred to find Hanji and Levi inside as well as the man he wants to see. Hanji's expression is friendly surprise, Levi's is neither of those things, and Erwin just watches Jean. Expectant and waiting, just like Armin.

“Hi, Moblit,” he hears Hanji greet the janitor as he sweeps past them. Hanji and Levi take a step to either side when Jean slams his palms on Erwin's desk, trying to hide the shaking in his hands when he points an accusing finger at the man with the robotic hand.

“Don't you fucking _think_ you've taken him from me.”

Levi’s voice cracks like a whip, vicious and authoritative. “ _What the fuck_ \--”

Erwin silences Levi with a gesture of his hand, blue eyes never looking away from gold, distant and vivid as the sky. Jean straightens up just enough so he's not inches from Erwin's face and continues.

“I may not own Marco anymore, but he's still _mine_. Just as I'm his. And we're going to be together, even if I have beat everyone in his building with a _goddamn wrench_.”

“Seeing as your hands are empty, Mr. Kirstein,” Erwin notes, standing to match Jean's height - and then surpass it, unfortunately, “I assume you have some other proposition.”

Jean nods tightly. “I want to work here.”

“Oh?” Hanji leans into Jean's field of vision, a twisted smile fighting its way across their face. “What makes you think we'd even take you?”

He flinches, his bravado and passion starting to crack at the edges. Levi takes a verbal ice pick to him as he yanks Jean around by the fabric of his sweatshirt.

“Got any experience working on Salvages or anything robotic at all, _construction worker_?”

“Yeah, actually.” The memories hurt, and he feels more like he's digging himself a verbal grave with every word but he persists. Desperation, maybe, and the feeble feeling of a bluff. “I've helped an ex-coworker when his Salvage legs became damaged, I've--”

Levi releases him, expression smoothing out into cool neutrality, and Jean's heart thuds in his mouth as he catches Hanji's openly interested gaze.

“I've taken Marco apart before so I've had experience with both Kingsguard and JaegerCorp Salvages. I have a bachelor’s in mechanical engineering from Utgard University.” He looks back at Erwin who still sports that unreadable expression; and this time Jean feels the truth in his own words. “And when he broke his eye, I fixed it with nothing but a soldering pen, superglue and tweezers. I can do this. I can help him.”

The man behind the desk glances at each of his coworkers in turn; first, Levi, who clicks his tongue as he glares as Jean.

“If you as much as think about storming into my surgeries, I'll Augment you from the inside out.” And he crosses his arms.

Hanji's reaction is frightening in a different way - they sling their arm across Jean's shoulders and grin at Erwin. “If he messes up, we could just cut off his foot and practice with it, right?”

Their words are like the wind and rain; he just braces himself against it and waits. Holds his gaze with Erwin, holds his ground and his resolve because it's all he has left. Everything else has been ripped away from him, but he will not let go. Not anymore.

Erwin's shoulders relax with his sigh, and he breaks away from Jean's stare, returning to his seat and focusing once more on whatever he'd been doing before his office had been invaded by righteous anger and a bad haircut.

“I expect a formal job application on my desk tomorrow. I assume you'll want to keep the job you have now?”

“Y-yes,” Jean replies mechanically. He doesn't relax, not really; he just mentally shifts to the defensive, ready to counter whatever Erwin might say. But the arm across his shoulders yanks, shifting him slightly off balance as Hanji steers him towards the door.

Their expression is warm and excited. “Come on, lemme get you down to the labs. I know you prolly can't start for a little while, but I may as well give you a tour of how things work. Oh! And I'll make sure to send home some old care manuals for you to study, as well as start crafting up some quizzes on basic anatomy...”

He tunes out most of Hanji's drabbling once he realizes it's drifted off into irrelevant territory, and he gives Erwin one last searching look. There's a faint smile in the man's expression as Levi turns his back on Jean.

“... show starts you can come in and intern here in the afternoons, get some hands on work. You probably won't get to do any of the really big programming stuff, that's my job with Moblit but we'll still put you to good use.”

And Jean nods back. Marco had his own fight, yes; but he wasn't going to fight it alone. And Jean was gonna be right there if he ever woke up.


	15. Epilogue: To Me, You're Beautiful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really know what to say anymore, other then... Thank you. We're here; I'm here, at a place I never thought we'd be. The end of the biggest undertaking of my literary life, and it feels so surreal. Every comment, every kudos, every post and every tweet mean so much to me; and I'm so, so glad that you've all made it here, whether you've been here from the start (*coughs* evangelion) or you're coming across this, god, months (or even years???) later you are still just as important. 
> 
> But it's time to say goodbye to some things, and hello to others. And for the last time for this story; here we go.

It was a full house inside the Sinapolis Repertory Theatre that Sunday night; the murmur of patrons as they came in from the cold rose from the ground seating, up past the two balconies to echo gently off the ceiling. The building itself had an illustrious past, being one of the prime attractions of the city in it's prime, and often pulled in much of the holiday crowd for various shows. This year was no exception; Blithe Spirit had enjoyed a long, prosperous run and was slowing to a close in the frigid days of late January.

Behind the stage, beyond the set he'd helped build, all the way back in the green room sat a young man with blond hair trimmed into an undercut. He was hunched over a tablet computer at the large, central table, amber-colored eyes narrowed as he scanned its contents. A bowl of seasoned cereal mix was at his elbow, and he munched on it absently every few minutes.

One of the actresses, a delicate little blond in a mint-green maid's outfit, alighted on the seat beside him and waited for the man to notice her. It took him a couple minutes, and then he raised his head.

“Oh, Historia,” he greeted her. “What's up?”

“Just wanted to know what's got you so focused,” she beamed. The man blushed a little, running his fingers through blond hair and exposing a bit of the dark brown roots. One hand tightened around the device, defensively, and he pulled it a little bit closer to his body.

But then, he studied the actress a bit more; and, as if finding something satisfactory in her gaze, spoke. “A little bit of homework, I guess. I've got a second job that I'm training for, so...” and after a moment's hesitation, he showed her the screen. A robotic arm was displayed on it, partially disassembled and carefully labeled.

“I want to work on Salvages and Augments. I had a.” He paused, and swallowed. “A really good friend who was a Salvage, you know.”

Historia's smile tilted to the side in curiosity. “That sounds like the kind of thing you'd be really good at, Jean. You used to really like mechanical things, didn't you?”

The corners of his mouth tighten, on the very verge of a grin - and then a bronze-skinned brunette with a flicker of freckles on her nose peered around the corner.

“Hey, Kirstein,” she greeted the man, and then her eyes alighted on the little actress. “Ten minutes to curtain, sweetheart.”

“Thanks, Ymir,” and Historia bounced out of her chair, dusting down her clothes and giving a little twirl in her fluffy skirt. “I'll see you later, Jean.”

He waved her goodbye and returned to his reading.

 

* * *

 

 

He had arrived home around one thirty in the morning, as per usual; but that night hadn't been any normal night for Jean. He didn't sleep until he received a text, even if his eyes were closed and heavy when the tiny device in his hand went off.

 

**From: Handjob [2:01 am]**

_he pulled through~_ (ﾉ≧∀≦)ﾉ

 

And even after that, he only managed a couple hours of restless sleep before his alarm went off at eight.

From the moment he opened his eyes, Jean could start a tally of all the things he missed in his life. It was too dark in his room now, no gentle blue light to illuminate a path around the laundry and other items on his floor; too quiet, too, without the sound of mechanical breathing. His friends had bought him a small nightlight and asked him if he'd wanted a white noise machine, but he'd declined.

He showered, shaved in front of a haphazard mirror bolted to the medicine cabinet door, and dressed in the kind of preoccupied haze common of the sleep-deprived on a mission. Didn't trust himself with something as complicated as eggs - eggs that never quite tasted like he wanted them - he mechanically downed cereal as fast as he could handle without getting sick.

It seemed that Marco had been right in his predictions. Jean was getting along without him, but... he still missed him. Missed his presence, missed the sound of his voice and the smell of his cooking and the lights of his two different eyes. Jean missed the contrast between his own flesh and Marco's robotic hand, missed his smile and his warmth and all the other things Jean had been too scared to enjoy before they were gone.

But today was different; there was a chance, however, slim, that he'd get to see Marco again.

He rinsed the empty bowl, shrugged on a heavy coat with a little patch near the bottom on the front, and headed outside. There was a navy blue car waiting for him on the curb, a fairly nice number with an obvious dent in the front bumper. Said car's owner - a man with shaggy brown hair and a piercing gaze - was lounging in the passenger side seat, feet up on the dash in a fashion he'd never let Jean use.

“You're driving,” Eren droned as Jean buckles himself in behind the wheel. “Got your license?”

“Fresh this weekend. Passed the test,” and Jean forked the badge over for his friend to inspect. Eren raised his eyebrows, mouth twisting into a begrudgingly impressed expression.

“Doesn't look fake, at least. Good job.” Despite his words, he still watched Jean sharply out of the corner of one turquoise eye as the blond turned the key in the ignition. “Hands at ten and two,” he reminded Jean.

“They are at ten and two,” Jean muttered, eyes on the road as carefully backed out of the parking space and pulled onto the road.

“More like at eleven and one.”

“I've just got bigger hands than you, dude. You'll have to just accept that one day,” he chided.

Eren snorted. “No way, we're like. The same size, if I'm not bigger proportionally. And I always keep my hands exactly at ten,” and he enunciated his words with exaggerated care as Jean took a corner nice and slow, “and two.”

“Well maybe next time you should take your hands and shove them right up your--”

“Take this right!”

Jean gritted his teeth and wheels the car around, switching from gas to gently braking as he cut in neatly between two other vehicles moments before the light changed. “Could have said something sooner,” he reminded Eren.

He didn't turn his head to see the brunet's airy shrug. “Checking your reflexes.”

Their short drive just out of town to the Wings of Freedom headquarters felt like an age for Jean; his muscles were tense despite their soreness and he had to really police himself as his attention flickered from the road and the present. Today was important, more than all the others, that he got to work on time.

Today was the day they were going to try to wake Marco up.

He'd been asleep for almost two months now, the natural healing process of his body slowed to a crawl with drugs and life-support machines as Hanji worked with a near-manic energy to remake Marco's arm and chest. First there had been body molds of his intact side, then from the frame up they'd built half a human torso from metal, silicone and bio-communicative materials. And Jean had helped.

Even if it had felt like busy work in places, just following Hanji's careful instructions as he soldered parts together, checking and rechecking tirelessly that it worked right. He'd been there the first time they'd had a computer command the arm's movements, watched the synthetic muscle fibers he'd helped attach bunch and relax as the fingers played half a complex piano piece with perfect grace. Most of the prosthetic had been made from the funds of an apparently exorbitant donation made recently; Jean hadn't asked where from, wasn't sure he wanted to know what rich eccentric was contributing more to Marco's recovery than Jean was.

After all, he'd only been allowed to help with half of Marco's Rendering. He'd not so much as seen his boyfriend except through thick glass of the isolated, sanitized room. Too many germs, Levi had told him. Too much blood. The surgery to attach the arm to his body, encase the artificial organs they'd ordered and tested and modified; that had been this weekend. Levi had apparently called in some support for the almost thirty-hour surgery, and Jean had stayed up until he'd gotten a texted confirmation that Marco had pulled through.

That still left the big question though; if Marco would even wake up.

When Jean parked the car and offered Eren the keys, the brunet just stepped out of the vehicle and avoided the offered hand. The blond followed his example, locked the door behind him, and tried again.

“Eren, take your keys.”

“Nah,” he shrugged, hands in his pockets against the cold. “You're probably gonna fuck Marco as soon as you get him in the car, and I'd rather you keep it after you guys cream all over each other in there.”

The kindness of the gesture is not lost on Jean, though he does get sidetracked by the vulgarity. He hesitated and eyed one of the piles of plowed snow in the modest parking lot before pocketing the keys with a muttered, “thanks, man.”

Wings of Freedom was housed in what had once been a small hospital; therefore, the building wasn't much to speak of from the outside. There was no real reason for the two men to hesitate outside, and yet they did. In perfect silence, like the deep breath before the plunge, Eren waited for Jean.

And when they entered, they did so right after each other.

Jean had, thankfully, grown used to the facility enough to know exactly where to go, so Eren trailed him a few steps back down various hallways; past the entry lounge where Jean had waited for hours that first long, horrible night, past the photos on the walls and Erwin's office, hooking to the left when the hallway teed between the mechanical wing and the medical wing. And once they rounded one more corner, they found themselves standing outside the recovery rooms.

Three people awaited them outside a closed room; a lanky androgynous brunette with their hair tied back in a ponytail and glasses perched on a roman nose, a short man with dark eyes, darker hair and an ever darker expression, and lastly a blond with broad shoulders and a noble look to him. But Jean's gaze didn't linger on them and he left Eren to exchange pleasantries in a soft tone with the trio, and he glued himself to the glass window beside the door.

Inside slept a man who looked to be about twenty-six years of age, give or take a bit; his dark brown hair was cut short, skin sallow but flecked with freckles especially on his nose and cheeks, and expression calm. From this side, only a few patches of bandages could be seen, bridging his slightly-upturned nose and covering over half his forehead. The other side was blocked from view, but Jean still had an intimate knowledge with the robotic arm that lay out of sight.

“Has he woken up yet?” Jean asked, even though the stillness of the air spoke of ill tidings. Levi, the black-haired man, took another drink of something steaming from a thermos and then spoke.

“Not yet. We took him out of sedation, but he's still been through a lot. All we do now is wait.”

Reflexively, Jean reached for the handle to the door, turned it gently and, when he met no resistant from either lock or superiors, entered.

Blankets covered most of Marco's body, along with a hospital gown, but his arms were exposed. One was palm-side up, IV by the crook of his arm and a bio-monitor pad just below the needle. The other was mechanical and perfectly still, save for the movement of his chest as he breathed deeply and easily.

Jean's eyes traveled up to his face, which was equally dualistic - thick pads of gauze hid most of the right side of his face except for the eye. Solid blue, blank and dead as a gemstone with half the size and none of the peculiarly expressive glow Jean remembered, it watched him approach. He pulled up a chair beside Marco's left side, wove his fingers in between the unresponsive ones and waited.

 

* * *

 

Lunch came and went, along with a few of Jean's friends; Connie and Sasha from his job at the theatre and his high school days, Armin the pediatrician, Mikasa the police officer. Even Bertholt and Reiner took a couple hours off their job working private security for some of the big-name actors in town for the show. Each of them stayed as long as they could, exchanged a few words of comfort and assurance with Jean, and eventually had to return to their daily lives.

There were a couple late Christmas presents on a table in the corner of the room, brightly colored in the stark sterile white surroundings, but they did nothing to cheer up the man sitting by the bed.

Hanji, the brunette from earlier, had brought him a tablet filled with complex diagrams of Salvage limbs for him to study; but since he wasn't on the clock he hadn't really touched it. Some kind of abandonment complex, perhaps, kept his fingers laced with Marco's even as his muscles cramped from sitting there so long.

Eventually, hands clamped down on the back of his chair, and a tall blond man with laughing hazel eyes and a few days’ worth of facial hair leaned over Jean.

“... Mike? Don't you usually drive a taxi or something?”

Mike gently started to wheel the chair away from the bed. “When I'm not on standby here as a surgeon, I happen to enjoy driving. Now, c'mon Jean. You need to get something to eat.”

Jean let his fingers get tugged away from Marco's, and he wondered if he imagined the slight tug of resistance just before their skin parted. His heart hammered, wrenched in his chest, but Mike whisked him down the hall to Erwin's office before he could really protest.

Inside, Hanji and Erwin were already picking at a small spread on Erwin's desk; bottles of old-fashioned soda, some holiday cut-out cookies, and an open box of black olive and sausage pizza. A third of it was already gone, and Hanji was chewing enthusiastically on a crust as they turned to greet Jean.

“Don't worry,” and Hanji tapped a little screen on their wrist that showed a series of gently trembling lines. “Short range brain wave and pulse monitor, so I'm keepin' an eye on his vitals from here. If Marco so much as has a vivid dream we'll know. Eat before you pass out.”

“Where's Levi?” Jean accepted a slice of pizza with some reluctance; by the first bite, however, his appetite seemed to pick up.

Mike answered him over the hissing of a bottle cap being pried off. “Asleep. One of us has to keep awake in case of trouble, and I've slept most of the day away.” He took a few long pulls of soda. “You took the day off from the theatre, right?”

Mouth still a little full of pizza, Jean nodded in confirmation. After swallowing he clarified with, “I kind of figured he'd be awake by now, though.”

He watched his coworkers very carefully for any kind of hesitation, but none of them seem abnormally worried. No worried, knowing glances passed over his head; just a softening of the lines in the corners of Mike's eyes. Erwin's expression was inscrutable as he broke a piece off a cookie, blue gaze on Jean.

“I won't make you go home tonight - there's a bed free in the room next to Marco's and you're welcome to it. But after that I'll expect you to resume working, both here and at the theatre.”

Jean's fingers tightened into fists, his teeth ground together but he nodded. “Yes, sir,” he replied automatically before he stood and wheeled his chair back down the hall to Marco's room. On the way he spotted a small figure curled up in the bed next door, narrow eyebrows only relaxed from their perpetual frown in sleep; but he didn't linger over the sight. Instead, he stationed himself by Marco's side afresh and wound their fingers together again. This time, though, he chose the right side and busied himself with inspecting the articulated robotics. Tried to spot some of his own handiwork, and he finds himself in some of the anchor points for the muscles, in a specific faint beading of soldered metal. He finds solace there as well, his thumb rubbing over the smooth-capped knuckles of Marco's hand.

“Please,” he whispered to the still form under the sheets. “Please wake up.”

 

* * *

 

His second night back at the theatre ended with him in the parking lot of Wings of Freedom at two in the morning, trying desperately to get in. It was frigid outside, frost already collecting on the edges and corners of anything it could find, and the glass door is just as cold as he beat on it.

“Mike?” Jean begged to the impartial winter winds. “Levi? Erwin? It's Jean. Let me in!”

No one answered.

He retreated to his car, called Hanji twice and Levi once; but neither of them answered. He bundled himself up in the front seat of Eren's car, tucked his limbs into his coat and tried to remember how to sleep in a car in the dead of winter and still be able to wake up.

The buzz of his phone made him jump, and with fingers already going numb from the cold Jean answered Hanji's call. “H-hello?”

A man's voice answered him, faint and harried. _“Jean? It's Moblit, on Hanji’s phone. Why are you calling at this hour?”_

“I'm in the parking lot and I,” he took in a deep breath. “I want to see Marco before I go home.”

Moblit sighed. _“... Will you promise to leave if you see him?”_

“Yes,” Jean replied carefully.

_“To leave and actually go home to your own bed and sleep?”_

He flinched, teeth flashing in a guilty grimace. “What makes you think I--”

 _“Security cameras. Don't try to sleep in the parking lot again. It's supposed to hit zero tonight. Fahrenheit,”_ Moblit added as clarification. Jean clicked his tongue and scowled.

“Yeah, all right. I-- I promise.”

Then from across the parking lot he saw the front door open. Jean ended the call, locked the car behind him and sprinted across the pavement. Frost crunched and skidded under his boots, and he almost didn't slow down in time to avoid crashing into the neurotic brunet.

“Just,” and his words appeared not to stick much to Jean, “be really quiet, okay? Levi would want me to let you freeze.”

“That's because Levi has no soul,” Jean murmured back, padding down hallways with more stealth than it seemed he could have managed on his own. He slipped into Marco's room, where the only light is the faintest glow behind his right eye and the quiet monitors above his bed.

Jean leaned in to Marco's lips, then second-guessed himself and pressed dry, chapped lips to the bandaged forehead instead. He breathed in deep, trying to detect any trace of scent familiar to him. But all he could smell was metal and medicine and frost.

He had promised Moblit, and he kind of liked the dark blond; a little neurotic, sure, but without him acting as an external conscience Jean suspected Hanji would have started taking off their own limbs just to experiment Salvage parts better. He didn’t want to break his promise, but he also really didn’t want to leave.

Jean glanced up at Moblit, but the janitor slash technician slash conscience answered him before he could even ask.

“Go home, Jean. Rest, and shower, and don’t... dwell on it so much.  It’s not your fault--”

“Yeah,” Jean cut him off, pulling away from Marco’s body. “Yeah, it is.” But he walked back out to the parking lot, turned on Eren’s car, and drove himself home.

 

* * *

 

A few evenings later, at the end of Blithe Spirit's run, Jean smashed a sledgehammer through one of the set walls. His shirt clung to his spine from sweat as he toiled, and one of his supervisors was watching him with a concerned expression. Said supervisor reached up to rub at his bandanna, which he still wore until his hardhat, and waved down one of the sound crew members.

“Hey, Connie. Jean seems a little... zealous tonight, doesn't he?”

The shorter man cast his once-classmate a pitying glance as Jean threw himself into the demolition of all that remained once the set had been stripped of reusable props or mementos.

“Marco's not woken up. His boyfriend.”

The supervisor's eyes widened behind his protective googles. “Really? How long's it been?”

“Three days since they took him out of the coma. It'll be four tomorrow morning.”

Over the sound of splintering wood, Jean missed the next section of their conversation; or he would have, had he been listening at all. His eyes were bloodshot and unfocused, mind miles away as he applied himself to the simple task of destruction. This, at least, seemed to be something he could do.

Marco hadn't woken up, and he'd helped with the construction of his arm and side - so, by extension, if Marco never woke up it would be partially Jean's fault. He panted, sweat dripping down his forehead, and smashed his sledge into a four-by-six board. A nail pinged out of the wood, bouncing off the plastic of his glasses and leaving a little star-shaped crack.

“--shit!”

He stumbled backward, reflexes too slow to dodge the nail entirely, but his body still reacted to the assault. The glasses were still intact but the tiny refraction in the lower corner caught his eye, halted his breathing for one long horrible moment. Golden, bloodshot eyes went wide, pupils mere pinpricks in his fear. It should have been impossible for cracks to look familiar, but they did. He saw them in his nightmares, in glass and mirrors and pretty green eyes that dripped with red--

The man with the bandanna jogged over and caught Jean by the arm before he could start his next swing with that ghostly expression still on his face. “Hey, J-Jean, why don't you take a little break? Take off those glasses, maybe sit--”

A blonde, their hair cut short and hiding almost entirely in their hard hat, stilled the other man. “It's all right, Dita,” and they pull their own glasses off misty-blue eyes. “He can have mine.”

Jean offered his damaged lenses with hands that tremble, just a little; and instead of wearing them, the blonde folded them up and pocketed the glasses. Dita followed them as the androgyne walked away, leaving Jean to sweat and shake and dismantle yet more of the set.

“Better to give him something to do than dwell on it,” the blonde explains to their co-worker. “Pity it's his last day; but I can't see him traveling permanently with our crew. He's a decent worker.”

Dita gave Jean one last, somber look over his shoulder. “I'll miss the kid. Hope his, uh, boyfriend wakes up.”

Meanwhile, the dyed blond finally sets the sledgehammer down. His muscles were quivering from the effort, but he didn't stop. Fueled by manic energy, he hauled a slab of plywood over his shoulder and carried the piece outside to the dumpster. There was already a trail of people, like ants, carrying bits and pieces from place to place, and he caught the eye of a woman with brownish-red hair.

“Hey, Sash,” he panted; she paused in the snow, various cords looped around her shoulders as she carted lighting equipment to one of the vans parked in the alleyway. “You headin' out in the next couple days, right?”

She nodded tightly. He offered a smile that faltered and died moments after hitting the cold air.

“Lease is up really soon.  But don’t worry, we'll be sure to swing by to say goodbye,” and she continued on her way, feet dragging a little from exhaustion, and he returned to his work.

A little over an hour later, he had clocked out for the last time. Nanaba had offered him one of the prop books from the shelves he'd helped tear down; a lightweight chunk of stiff foam with _'The Middle Parts of Fortune_ ' painted on the spine as a parting gift. He'd tucked the false book under his arm and thanked his temporary employers before turning his back numbly on them and exiting into the cold night. He was still waiting on the parking pass from the apartment, so he parked it in a garage a couple blocks away and walked home. The neck of his sweat-soaked shirt froze where it hit the air, stiff against his skin and cold, and it crunched in his grip when he stripped for his shower.

His legs buckled twice as he showered, palms slapping against the curtain rod and wall to prevent the inevitable fall, and he barely hits the mattress before his phone alarm awakened him for work.

Back into clothes, back into the car; he drove to Wings of Freedom without a hitch, put his shoulder into the door as he entered the building. But when he reached the mechanical wing, Hanji took one look at his state and not-so-covertly stored the power tools out of his reach.

“Today's lesson,” they informed him as they ushered him back down the hall to Marco's room, “is a lesson in patience. Wait here for me, while I go out and get coffee and doughnuts.”

“When will you get back?” Jean asked, even as he sat himself next to Marco's left side and pillowed his head in his crossed arms. Cool, still fingers just barely touched his upper arm, and he focused on that tiny point of contact as Hanji answered flippantly.

“Oh, probably around lunchtime. Maybe longer. Don't wait up for me.” It was an obvious excuse for him to nap, and he was tired enough to accept it.

Nose buried in soft fabric that smelled like soap and drugs and cotton and nothing like Marco, Jean dreamed of blue. Blue like the spring sky, blue like pool water, blue like flowers and LEDs and cracked, robotic eyes. Blue like hope and promises, and a little spot along his neck tingled.

When he opened his eyes, Marco was just as still as before. But those fingers had moved up to just barely rest on his elbow; he didn't notice until he had already shifted away, but he could feel the path they'd taken down his skin like he'd been burned.

Jean's heart felt like it rested on his tongue, and if he so much as spoke it would come tumbling out to splatter on the floor. The empty blue eye on Marco's right side glowed faintly, a different shade of electric blue than his old one but it was like the blue in his dream.

“Mar--”

He choked himself back, even as he found his hands reaching for either side of Marco's face. He was afraid to touch, to try to jostle him awake, and when Hanji stepped in the room moments later with a box of doughnut holes under their arm his voice is a soft hiss.

“Hanji,” he begged, “Hanji I think he woke up while I was out, his fingers moved did you--”

Hanji shoved the doughnut box on the table beside the presents. In a silent, stone-faced flurry of movement they tapped a series of options on the monitor above Marco's head. A history of vital signs flashed onto the screen, and Jean noted a tiny little anomaly.

“There,” and he pointed, stretching his body over the one in the bed to try to point like an over-eager child. “There, there something blipped what does--”

Hanji clamped their hand over Jean's mouth to silence him; their eyes narrowed as they leaned in closer to the monitor, then down to the one they wore on their wrist like a watch. After a moment, they spoke.

“Must have happened when I was out of range, but it doesn't look major enough to be full consciousness. Maybe just a vivid dream.”

His expression crumpled. “But he moved--”

“I'm not saying he didn't,” Hanji whispered, casting a glance over the still, bandaged Salvage on the bed. “And I'm not saying it's not some kind of progress. But he's not there just yet. Give him time, Jean. Patience.”

Jean sighed, but he did accept a few of the doughnut holes Hanji offered him. Picking out a few of the jelly-filled kind, he balanced the computer tablet on his lap and went back to studying and manipulating diagrams. But his shoulders were tense, and frustration seemed to crackle off his skin like electricity.

 

* * *

 

 

After having Hanji swear up and down to call him if there was any change in Marco's condition, Jean relented to Armin's insistence on a lunch outside of the Wings of Freedom facility the next day. “Just nowhere too nice,” he reminded the blond doctor on the way out to the car. “Or far.”

“Just the steakhouse a little south of downtown,” Armin assured him. “A twenty minute drive. And I'm paying.”

Technically, it was his day off so he couldn't even be able to use his 'hour long lunch break' as an excuse not to go. Jean walked slowly, as if he met resistance with every step - something in the facility tugging him back, whispering idea about how if he wasn't there when Marco woke up he might fall back into a deep, endkess sleep. Conflicted emotions flickered behind golden eyes, and Armin took pity on him.

“You can even take my car and leave me at the restaurant if you get the call while we're still eating.”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm coming,” but his enthusiasm still seemed muted as he tailed Armin to his car. He took shotgun, feet firmly planted on the floor as opposed to propped on the dashboard as Eren might have done, and watched Wings of Freedom fade slowly into the distance in the rearview mirror.

A few miles of road passed under the wheels in silence, and then as Armin flipped on his turn signal to pass a slower car he spoke. “Talk to me, Jean. It's been almost a week.”

“What's there to talk about?” Jean replied, voice a careful monotone that spoke volumes just in the absence of emotion. “No change in his condition. A couple vivid dreams, at most.”

“I don't know much about Salvages-- sorry, or Rendering, as Hanji calls it,” and Armin smoothly switched lanes again, the ticking of the turn signal a pleasant metronome in the background, “but I don't think the prosthetic would have anything to do with him being a little slow to wake up.”

“I know,” Jean muttered, in a tone of voice that said this knowledge came from the head and not the heart. “But... it's still my fault. I should have suspected Hitch more from the beginning, I should have... I should have somehow been able to--”

“No, it's not. Jean,” he cast a worried blue gaze out of the corner of his eye, “Hitch did what she did because she _chose_ to; not because you let her. Did you ever tell her about Marco?”

He sighed, eyes still on the mirror, then trailing to the side to stare out the window. “... No, I didn't.”

“Didn't you do everything you could to keep Marco as safe as you could?”

“Not _everything_ ,” Jean parried. “And since when do you care so much about my self-confidence? Didn’t you think I was an egotistical brat in high school?”

Armin's smile was fleeting, private. “Because I've seen you do amazing things when you feel like you can do them. And because I saw Marco's arm.”

Jean’s face went hot with a self-conscious blush. “Please. I basically

just-- spit in the ocean. Helped assemble the stuff Hanji made.” But his expression was a little warmer than before, and the question he offered back to Armin was softer this time.

“... You really think he's gonna be okay?”

“I do.”

The swiftness of the reply seemed to do something for Jean, and when he glanced back out the window a faint smile flickered across his face. The familiar tick of the turn signal sounded out again, and they turned into the fairly packed parking lot of the steakhouse.

“Oh,” Armin added as a several minutes late afterthought, just as Jean was shutting the passenger side door and pulling down his shirt in the back, “I forgot to mention. It's also a going away party for Connie and Sasha.”

“Armin,” he lamented, dark brows drawn into an expression of torment. “I want to get back as soon as possible--”

“And you will. I won't even make you stay for dessert, if you don't want to.”

The last thing Jean said on the matter, as they entered the establishment that smelled gloriously of roasted peanuts and steak, was a hesitant. “what's the dessert?”

“Chocolate lava cake, I think. Maybe some white chocolate raspberry cheesecake, too.”

And with a sigh, Jean acknowledged that he was well and thoroughly fucked.

They found the rest of their group - a cozy group of six - crushed in a massive table in the back. Jean was shuffled into a seat across from Sasha and between Bertholt and Ymir, of all people. “Long time no see,” he grunted to either of the tall brunets. They'd all worked on the same production but seldom seen each other, Ymir especially, as Jean had been on construction while his friends ran security.

Jean's shoulders went a little more tense than before as he realized Ymir's eyes were Augmented; the slight brightness to the sclera, the immobility of the pupils as she gave him a sardonic smile.

“Watchin' Christa's a full time job with all her creepy fans,” she related, casting a fond look at the petite actress sporting false glasses and her hair up in a tight French braid. Outside of her work, Historia preferred to use a false name to prevent any unwanted admirers, but the brilliant spark in her bright blue eyes still glowed behind the false lenses. “Sorry I haven't been by to see Ro-Bodt yet. He doin' okay?”

“He's stable,” Jean reported, eyes on the menu. He missed the glance Bert threw Ymir over his bowed shoulders of pity, of warning. The woman cleared her throat, then threw an arm over Jean's shoulder. “Wh-- hey!”

“Better not be lookin' at that booze, pony boy. You're not much fun drunk. Not much fun sober, either, to be honest.”

He glared at her, amber eyes narrowed with mild irritation and major sleep deprivation. “Gee, thanks.”

“Get the cayenne rubbed steak. Medium rare.” She prodded a spot on the menu. “Comes with spicy gravy and fries, if you ask nicely.”

“You go here a lot?”

“It's the only kind of meat I like,” and she wiggled her eyebrows in such a way that left Jean in no doubt of her words' dirty connotation. He fought his smile down and snorted with laughter softly, golden eyes sparkling with amusement.

“So if you like it spicy,” and he was fully aware of the fact that he was talking to one of the most lethal women he's ever met, an Amazonian warrior with Augmented eyes that could probably see through walls, “does that mean your little vanilla cupcake over there isn't so--”

Jean owed his life to Bertholt, who had the presence of mind to remove all the steak-knifes from Ymir's reach before Jean had arrived. Even so, he coughed and massaged his throat after the ferocious headlock Ymir had put him in. Armin offered their waiter a calm smile, and Jean ended up ordering the cayenne steak anyway; sans the gravy.

“So,” Bertholt prompted Jean as Connie and Sasha launched into a pantomimed story about their favorite production - some neon-punk version of Midsummer Night's Dream, he recalled as Sasha proclaimed loudly something about Puck's purple fishnet tights - “I heard you helped build Marco's arm?”

Jean took another sip of root beer and shrugged. “Yeah, I helped assemble it. The design's all Hanji's, though, so it’s not like I did much other than help put some of the--”

“Whoa, I didn't hear about this!” Ymir looked away from fussing over Historia long enough to shoot Jean a curious stare. “You _built_ a robot arm?”

“Helped _assemble_ , I didn't--”

“Can you show me what it looks like?”

The blond's expression shifted, mouth twisting like he'd bitten into something bitter. “I haven't exactly been taking selfies with Marco or--”

“Yeah, but you took those art classes back in college,” Connie put in, dropping out of his conversation at the worst possible moment. Or best, if Jean went by the look of horror still lingering on Reiner's face. “You were so good. You could probably at least sketch a bit of it.”

“I have a pen!” Historia offered, whipping something out of her little leather purse. Ymir flipped over one of the paper menus left at their seats.

“Here, use this.”

Jean rolled his eyes but accepted the pen. He didn't mind all the eyes on him; he could tune them out easily, and he did so, closing his eyes to picture the arm he'd toiled on for months.

“So it kind of looks like the actual muscles of the arm,” he narrated as his pen skimmed over paper in curves that jumped and skittered in the middle of their arcs. He couldn't entirely blame the surface of the table for their lack of grace, either; he hadn't bothered to try drawing anything in years.

But he remembered every fiber, ever bend and every joint of the hand in his mind's eye; perhaps it's even more disappointing when the shape he pushed onto the paper didn't do the real thing much justice. Jean pushed the paper more toward the center of the table, ignoring the feeble sketch on the back of the flimsy paper.

“That's it. Kind of. I'm really out of practice--”

He didn't miss, however, the way the rest of the table - Historia, Ymir and Bertholt on his side, Armin, Connie, Sasha and Reiner on the other - leaned in to get a better look at the drawing.

“Dude, it's still better than what I could have done,” Connie cut him off. Sasha snorted and flicked water on him with her straw, barely missing the paper.

“That's not saying much.”

Connie whined, and Jean snatched back the paper just before the waiter came back to refill their drinks.

“Not bad,” Ymir elbowed him as he took a drink again - soda nearly went up his nose, and he glared at her. “You should get into practice. Might be useful for your work, right? Diagram drawing and stuff.”

Jean folded up the drawing and stashed it into his pants pocket. “Maybe.”

He lingered on the edge of various conversations, chipping in with a comment here and there and tuning in and out of Sasha's story - _“... And then she started throwing the prop trees around, and it was so hilarious because the actress is so tiny! Like, shorter then Christa!” “Well that's kind of awkward, because that_ was _Christa...”_ \- and when the steak finally came he regretted nothing about his choices. It was mildly hot, almost unbearably juicy, and his moans of enjoyment made Bertholt blush very faintly from secondhand embarrassment.

By the time they were in the car, Jean was dozing in the front seat, comfortably full of meat and chocolate cake.

“You have fun?” Armin had asked anyway, though the glint in his dark blue eyes said that he already knew the answer. Jean checked his phone again out of habit - it had been quiet all of dinner aside from the occasional under-the-table text as Sasha tried to pry any hint of a less-than-professional relationship between his ex-coworkers Luke and Dita.

“It was missing one thing. Well, aside from Mikasa.”

And Jean gave Armin a smile back that was tinged with a little bit of sadness, and he didn't have to say another word.

 

* * *

 

 “I've been thinking,” Jean tested carefully, as he followed Hanji around their lab as they finished taking inventory.

“Always a good practice,” Hanji noted with a grin.

He rolled his eyes at their joke, pushed past it to continue his thought. “I want to try to draw Marco's arm.”

“I didn't take you for an artist.”

“I'm not. Well, not much of one.” Jean glanced to the side, tapped the tip of the pen against the clipboard he was carrying. “But I'd like to try. Maybe it'd help my knowledge of the anatomy of parts? If I know exactly how everything works, put together, then...”

“Show me.”

Jean raised an eyebrow curiously. “Huh?”

“Show me how well you can draw now, as you are. Here,” and

 Hanji flipped over the inventory sheet on his clipboard. “Draw Marco's hand, as best as you can.”

He hesitated, then complied - the quick movements of sketching coming a little easier than they had at dinner a couple days prior. The end all result wasn't much better than his first attempt, but it was recognizable at least.

“Not bad,” and Hanji clucked their tongue against the roof of their mouth. “Could use some improvement, but.” They whisked the inventory sheet away from Jean, tacking it to the nearest whiteboard like a parent with their child's most recent crayon'd Mona Lisa. The clipboard was quickly refilled with another blank sheet.

“Go do it again. But look at Marco's arm while you do it.”

He didn't smile at this new excuse to see the man in the bed again, but his pace heading up the wall was considerably lighter than it had been going down.

Jean tapped the pen against the clipboard a few more times as he walked to Marco's room, burning up some of his nervous energy before he entered. He didn't knock, didn't hesitate; just sighed, softly, and pulled up his usual chair on Marco's right side.

The glow from his new eye fascinated Jean to an extent - where his old one was like staring into a dentist's lamp or a cluster of Christmas lights, this one was like staring into the bottom of a still pool. Jean tore his eyes away from the weak, empty light and focused entirely on Marco's hand.

This, too, was very different than he remembered - less like marionette fingers, or barely fixed bones. He sketched the planes of the fingers first, straight lines attached to little circular joints. Then, in conjunction with his memory of how some of the larger muscles had attached to the frame, began to sketch in details. The subtle curves of the dark synthetic muscles lightly studded with nerve endings like stars, the pale plastic tips with silicone texturing like fingerprints to help grip and hold.

Gently, he took Marco's wrist in his fingers and tried to tilt it just a bit, so he could get a better glimpse of the joints there. It resisted him for a moment and then gave minutely, as if relaxing.

“Thanks,” he muttered even though he knew Marco couldn't hear him, and ran his fingers along the slightly textured palm. A fond gesture that only left a bitter taste in his mouth, he resumed sketching for a few more minutes.

But when he reached back to nudge the wrist back into its former position, the fingers contracted just a bit.

Jean went very, very still.

The fingers moved minutely, as if seeking something; setting his clipboard back behind him next to an abandoned empty box of doughnuts and some late presents, Jean carefully worked the fingertips of his left hand between those of the robotic limb. They gave under his touch, allowing him to slide home between them and press their palms together.

And then, slowly, the robotic hand clasped Jean's hand back.

A breathless little bark of amazement escaped his lips as the eye flickered to life - no longer an empty puddle but the ocean, flickering like the surface of the water on the public pool they'd visited together for years as children. It brightened, slowly, with a little ring of lights emerging that blinked, flickered, then slid over to Jean. The rings of lights shrank and grew, like a camera slowly coming into focus, or a pupil.

The rest of his head tilted, too, brown eye not as bright as the other, as before but open. Awake.

“Who... Jean? Is that you?”

He couldn't speak, couldn't move until Marco flinched in sudden pain - light from his right eye snuffing out into a weak, blank blue as his lips peeled back in a wince. Then Jean felt like he, too, woke up, and he sprung into action.

“Marco!” Slipping out of Marco's grasp, he stood up to touch the Salvage’s forehead, shoulders - “Where does it hurt?” he begged,terrified and desperate and still not a doctor.

But before Marco could respond, Hanji and Levi blew into the room simultaneously.

“Move, Kirstein,” Levi barked - not 'out' just 'move' so Jean slunk into the corner of the room with the other forgotten objects as mechanic and doctor descended on Marco like flies on a carcass.  Despite his pain, the brunet could still function and his mismatched eyes took in his twin saviors.

“Hanji? Levi? What...”

“Vitals look stable,” Hanji reported, glancing away from Marco's

 face long enough to check the monitor as Levi pressed his fingers to various spots along Marco's chest. “Ooooh, that eye looks lovely. How's it feel?”

“Kinda hurts, to be honest,” Marco answered weakly, but his expression held as Levi prodded him all over. “Just my head, though. Like a... migraine.”

“Burning? Tingling?” Levi pulled out a narrow shot of something from his lab coat pocket, injecting it carefully into Marco's IV.

“No, just... I feel hung-over, maybe. It's kind of bright in here, sorry,” and Marco squinted, covering his eyes with his left arm then sighing. “Yeah, that helps. Where am I?”

“Wings of Freedom. Safe.”

“Safe? Safe from-- ” the brunet repeated - then his entire body jerked, and he struggled to sit upright with a violent gasp, almost head-butting Levi in the nose. “Jean! Where’s Jean?”

His gaze landed on the blond hiding in the poorly little corner of the room, and Jean took in the faint mirrored movement in Marco's mismatched eyes as the brunet stared at him as though-- as though Jean had been the one on the brink of death. Jean swallowed, bit the tip of his tongue and kept the worst of his emotions in check.

“I'm here,” he murmured; Hanji was in the middle of inspecting Marco's eye from a couple inches away, but soon they bounced away from Marco with a knowing look.

“Uh, Levi,” and grey eyes met brown over the top of their patient's head. He was still glaring down the monitor above Marco as if he wanted to stand on the tips of his toes in order to see better.

His expression only soured further as Hanji threw some obvious glances towards the door. “I'm not done inspecting him,” he snapped.

“Oh, yes you are,” and Hanji made a move towards Levi that implied they were going to pick him up - his eyes widened, lips parting around a furious insult, and then he relented and let Hanji chase him out of the recovery room.

“Fine, but I get the fancy watch for a bit--” came his last complaints before the door clicked shut, leaving Jean and Marco alone in two different corners of the same room. The distance between them was about twenty feet, but when Jean crossed it he felt as though he’d just walked a thousand miles.

He didn't want to break down into over-emotional, weak wobbling tears of relief, but a couple trailed down his cheeks anyway. Marco only made it worse when he raised his arms in a silent gesture for a hug.

“With all respect, I don't think you're waterproof,” Jean croaked out, a little smile breaking across his face. Then a hiccupped chuckle escaped from his throat, and he wiped his face off on his shirt before finally, desperately, wrapping his arms around Marco's body. The hug was returned after a little hesitation, like Marco was trying to figure out how to move his arms again, but Jean could feel the enthusiasm behind the grip and he didn’t want to let go.

“You just can't stay dead, can you?” Jean gasped into the junction between shoulder and neck, where the skin was warm and freckled. “How many times is this, even?”

“Must have picked up being so stubborn from Dad. Or you.” And he took in a deep, hybrid breath that sobbed on the exhale. Thankfully for both of them, Jean was waterproof and he held the brunet until his tears lessened.

Eventually, however, the little exertion took its toll on Marco, and the brunet Salvage slumped against the bed once more. “Can you...“ and he made a little gesture with his palm and wrist. Jean stumbled into action.

“Yeah, sure-- like this?” And he had no issue in propping the end of the bed up so that Marco could assume a more upright position. This way they could talk, a bit more eye to eye, without taxing muscles that hadn't been used in two months.

“Just like that,” and as Jean started to pull back from leaning over Marco to adjust the blankets, he was very, very aware of Marco's breathing; half mechanical in a gentle, soft way, and so close to his ear that he felt warm breath fan over his skin. That was his only warning before a gentle kiss was pressed on his neck, right around a familiar spot. The mark there had long since faded, but Jean knew the location like it was etched on his very soul.

“You remembered?” Jean prompted, a little breathlessly, as he sat

 back down in the chair beside Marco's right side. The curious new eye tracked his movement. Marco swallowed.

“Of course. It hasn't been that long, has it?”

The blond's expression faltered. “Almost two months. You missed Christmas.”

“I missed--” and Marco's eye reacted, hypnotic dotted iris contracting before it melted into the rest of the blue; his eyes had closed. “... It feels like it's only been a few days since-- Hitch--”

He missed the way Jean reacted to the name, fists clenched out of sight, and he passed a worried expression Jean's way.

“She said she knew you, did she... are you okay?”

Jean laughed again, this time less with adrenaline and relief and more with disbelief. “You get ripped apart, put in a coma for almost two months and wake up with a new arm and an eye that apparently sees and--”

“Not apparently.” Marco's eyes were both open - technically, one of them had never closed - and they regarded Jean with interest. “It sees. I sees.”

“You mean you _see_.”

His expression shifted, pupils widening as his mouth took on an appreciative, contemplative twist. “You got _really_ hot.”

That time, Jean didn't have a comeback ready, and he blinked, stammering and blushed at the same time as Marco.

“Sorry,” the patient apologized. “I think it's the painkillers. And, well, having two eyes.”

“Oh, so you're sorry you complimented me,” Jean fumbled, cheeks still bright red and his neck still tingling from the light kiss and god, he was a mess. “Good to see you too.”

“No, you're still _really_ hot and I'm not sorry. I'm just sorry if I said it weird or something. You know?”

And Jean leaned over to press their lips together in a chaste, brief kiss. “Yeah. I know.”

The kiss became two, then three, then Jean started to pay less attention to quantity and more on quality - but before either of them could get too swept away, Jean pulled back. Opening his gold eyes to meet brown and electric blue, he fought the temptation to throw his reservations to the wind. But he felt as though there were some things he had to say first.

“You're not... mine anymore, Marco.” He reclaimed his seat, scooted it a little closer to the bed and kept his eyes on his hands. There was a faint scar on the knuckles of one hand, and he still vividly remembered the night it happened. “I had to give you to Wings because I couldn't afford to Render you anyway. I couldn't afford... That.”

He gestured to the new arm, the working eye that tracked his movements.

“So this means that... You're free. To choose someone other than me, I mean.”

Jean couldn't read the full nuances in Marco's expression from this side - the face behind the bandages was immobile, still, in many places. His voice was soft. “Do you think I would?”

Jean's shoulder twitched in the smallest shrug. “I'd understand if you did. The way I treated you, I feel like-- for the longest time I used you. Even before you died the first time, and I... I wouldn't blame you.”

“I used you, too,” Marco countered softly. “I knew you didn't love me, but I pretended you did. I tried to bribe you just to keep you around, and then when Dad died... It was the same kind of thing, right?”

“But that-- that wasn't your fault, Marco,” Jean rallied, not expecting to hear his once-inheritance, his always-friend speaking in that fashion. “I mean, I let you do those things--”

“And so did I. I knew about Dad's will and I never asked him to change it. I just wanted to.” And Jean didn't have to see his face to know that Marco was hurt. “i just wanted to see you again, so badly. I'm sorry.”

“No, Marco, don't be-- please, just let me apologize. Let me fix it. Let me--”

“No.” And Marco sat up, just a little, and gave Jean the most serious expression he'd ever seen on that face, even counting all its transformations over the years. “I'm not going to _let_ you do anything.

If you get to apologize, so do I. If I get to be free, so do you.”

Jean froze, struck into silence by his friend's words; and it took him a while before he could speak. “Okay. What... what do you want?”

“I want to just,” and Marco looked down at his hands and took in a deep breath. “I want _you_ , and I want you to want me back. No obligations, no parents, no inheritances. Just you and me. Just... us.” Mismatched, bright eyes glanced back up to study Jean's face. “What do _you_ want, Jean?”

The other man sighed - ran his fingers through his dyed blond hair, flashing dark roots. He was still fighting the desire to try to martyr Marco out of his life, so afraid of reverting back to their unhealthy codependence. But he also wanted...

“... I want houseplants,” he said, with an air of finality.

Marco’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“I want everything that you said, just,” he reached out and laced their fingers together, holding it up to eye level like he had so many months ago when they first met. Nostalgic, but also a hope to start things right this time. “Just with houseplants, too. Maybe fish. I've always wanted fish.”

Jean half expected Marco to get mad at him, to cluck and scold him for not acting serious about the whole thing. To call him out for running again. But he wasn't running, and Marco seemed to get that. So instead, Marco used their linked hands and a surprisingly strong pull from his robotic arm to yank Jean back in for another kiss.

Their teeth almost click together from the impact, and Jean winced. Marco's cheeks went red from embarrassment. “Sorry, I'm not really used to this arm yet--”

“No, it's cool it's cool,” and Jean half-crawled into Marco's lap, one knee on the bed as he leaned in as close as he could. They communicated in silence, with every touch and movement, every heartbeat and sigh. Jean read Marco's skin between the bandages like braille with his lips, kissing every inch he could to find the reassurances that yes, his closest friend was alive. In return, Marco wrapped his arms around Jean and buried his nose in fading-blond hair, down to the dark brown roots that assured him that his life-long love had returned to him one more time.

When they finally parted, Jean tracing his fingers along Marco's hairline affectionately, Marco spoke up.

“What kind of houseplants?” he teased. The man above him snorted and grinned.

“Oh, shut up and kiss me, Marco.”

And he did.

 

* * *

 

 

Four days later, in the middle of the night, a very annoyed Levi and a very amused Hanji showed Jean how to turn off the heartbeat monitor; that way neither surgeon nor head mechanic would be awakened by the false alarm of Marco's heartbeat beating quickly and erratically.

 

* * *

 

 

Four months later, both Jean and Marco moved in together in a little one-story house just fifteen minutes south of Wings of Freedom; in a quiet neighborhood where their down-the-street neighbor Eren gave them a little betta fish and a floating plant as a house warming gift.

 

* * *

 

 

They were going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> __  
>  ["So kiss me, and say that you will understand!"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L66pfIxrrEA>%0A)   
> 


End file.
